


my future will not be told in bullets and blood

by project_canary



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, Sideshow - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Mad Max AU, apocaplyse vibes, theres a few more characters but these are the main ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23863498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/project_canary/pseuds/project_canary
Summary: The world as we know it has burned. Those that survive have been forever changed, carrying both physical and psychological scars of the battles for their lives. When the apocalypse came, the strong endured, and the vulnerable were forced to obey. Welcome to the wasteland.
Kudos: 4





	1. the wasteland

**Author's Note:**

> yeah i already posted this on tumblr, so if you prefer to read it there, or want to see the pretty art with it, go there!

The sun was winning. It always had been, but humanity had been able to hold it off for long enough, harness it, pretend that it wasn’t the source of diseases and pain. But that was before the fall. Before the bombs ruined the lands. Nothing green was left, just sand and sun. Those killed by the nukes were lucky. The people that survived afterwards began to roam the large swaths of wasteland created by the bombs, and now it’s mainly populated by disease ridden cultists and cannibalistic ferals. Those untouched by disease are usually driven mad. No one is safe anymore. Nothing is sacred. 

The road warrior notices the war boys before they notice him, their thunderous vehicles shake the earth long before their tires crush you underneath. He knows that he had time, knows that even though the desert likes to trick the eyes, their mirage is just that at the moment: a trick. They’re still past the horizon, still out of reach, still…

The feeling hits again, the numbness in his legs and the fire of adrenaline through his heart. Flashing of lights that burn brighter than the sun, brighter than the bombs. Voices, whispers, thoughts that he can’t tell are his or someone else. 

_ Run.  _

The voices weren’t always this loud. He scratches quickly at the side of his head, at the scabs in his hair, feels the blood flow freely, the warmth nearly indistinguishable from the heat of this barren land, the red dying his hair an even darker crimson. The vehicles feel louder, the smell of their engines filling the air with pungent smoke and acrid guzzolene. 

_ Drive.  _

Blood coats the inside of his mouth and he can’t remember if it’s from his own hand or from the biting of his tongue. Too close, he thinks. They’re too close. Close, he repeats in his mind, overpowering the voices for a moment, shaking his head with a growl. His car sits quietly next to him, and in a practiced movement he slides himself into the driver’s seat and turns the engine over, before he throws the vehicle into drive. They’re close enough now that he can hear the drumming of their war song, hear the screaming of their swan songs. 

The desert has never been forgiving, especially on vehicles. The sand swallowed drivers that weren’t careful enough to navigate the plains with caution, and even then it was always hard to find traction. 

His tires spin in the deep sand before he finally launches forward, the war boys now much too close for his liking. The whiteness of their skin is almost reflective in the light as he catches sight of them in his rearview mirror.  _ Painted that way,  _ the voices laugh, and he focuses back onto the path in front of him as he tries to outrun the pack. 

There’s a lot of them, too many of them, and as they get even closer, he realizes that he’s not going to get out. His foot is on the floor, his car groaning with effort as it pushes itself faster, but it’s not fast enough. The war boys are on him, leaning over with their sickly hands and skeletal smiles. They speak but he can’t understand their language. 

The first gets a bullet to the head as he reaches in, the war boy’s body falling back limp as the pursuit car slows. The next one is smarter and grabs his hand too fast for him to fire, grabbing at his steering wheel through the window. He bites hard at the wrist, tasting blood and the hand releases the wheel, instead gripping onto the road warrior’s hair and pulling back. He lets go of the flesh, spitting out the diseased blood. They never taste right. Another car slams into the passenger side of the car and he pulls the war boy out of his car and he finally lets go of his hair and wrist. He fires twice, hitting him in the chest. 

His car lurches to a stop and he can see a hook embedded in his bumper, the war boys hooping and hollering in delight. He shoots again but the gun jams, so he throws it to the side before launching out the window of the car and taking off running. 

The war boys pursue in their vehicles, throwing chains around his ankles as they drive past, dragging him through the sand. It fills his mouth and blinds his eyes, but he can still feel their hands grab at him so he fights. Lashing out, biting, scratching, punching. The drumming is so loud now, louder than even the voices and he doesn’t know how many war boys he takes down before they finally pin him down, chaining his hands and feet and gagging his mouth. The war boys gather their wounded and dead before attaching him to the back of the car with ropes and chains. Then, like a snake retreating back into its hole after a hunt, the pack of war boys drive back through the desert to their home. 

He fights the chains the whole way, the metal burning his wrists, drawing blood that at least reminds him that he’s alive. The gag does its job as well, digging into the soft sides of his mouth, leaving bloody spit dripping down his chin. It dries before it gets too far, the sun hot and burning as it creates mirages across the horizon. 

He doesn’t know how long he walks for, pulling against the vehicle that drags him by his wrists before a cave carved out of a cliff appears in front of them. War boys swarm out of the opening, grabbing at him and his clothes and he feels the weight of the crowd crushing him. He tries to push them away but his captors pull him along, his feet barely keeping up.

The dark of the underground is suffocating, dim fluorescent lights red with rust breaking the dark with flickering rays. Two war boys hold his shoulders, another keeps his hands behind his back as they push him further and further down the path. He can hear something. Something that has no place in the wasteland. 

Water. It’s the drip of a leaking pipe, of the sloshing of water in a tank. Too much water for one place. The voices are quiet for a moment and he doesn’t even realize that the path has opened up to what could only be described as an operating room. By the time his white skinned captors were ripping up his shirt and pushing him onto the table he couldn’t fight back, only squirm and twitch as he felt a needle pierce his back, the familiar buzz of a tattoo gun. 

He didn’t know what they were writing. He didn’t care. But he realized that the less he moved, the looser they held him down, so he stopped. His breathing still was labored, sand grating against his lungs. But he waited for their hands to almost hover above his body. 

He jumped up like he had been electrocuted, surprising the five war boys in the vicinity and alerting the rest that a prisoner was loose. He skittered off the table, down the only clear hallway he could see, his hands tied in front of him, but he couldn’t bother with freeing himself yet. He raced around a bend, sunlight now streaming in through grates in the ceiling, the footsteps of more war boys above him as they ran around. He could hear them coming from ahead of him, hear them approaching from behind. He stopped, his heart racing, his eyes darting back and forth. 

_ Fight.  _ The lights blinded him and he reflexively raised his hand, blocking a block from a war boy’s wrench. His fingers wrapped around the metal and he seized it, wacking his attacker back before rushing past. More images flashed in his head. Tires, fire, blood. He ran, trying to escape the war boys and the voices in his head. 

The hallways were a maze and eventually he cornered himself and pushed open a set of doors, revealing a hundred foot drop. The cries of the war boys were close behind him, and there was only one way to go. But he didn’t move. In front of him was a huge piece of rock that stuck up from the desert, a skull carved into its side. He had heard stories of this place. A crowd was gathered underneath the skull, and the war boys emerged at the end of the hallway. 

“The road warrior!” One screamed, and he charged, giving their prisoner only one choice.

Jump. His hands extended upwards, catching onto the crane claw as the throng of war boys reached out to grab any part of him. He dangled, swinging back and forth before they were able to pull him back in, his body stretching over the open space, reaching for the death giving sun, reaching across to The Atrium before the doors shut again, and he was torn back to the darkness. 


	2. strength of the pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Buck revved his engine, his engine straining with the effort, and the other war boys around him followed his lead. Then, as if the floodgates opened, the car in front of Buck kicked up sand and everyone floored it, spinning out in a mad rush to be as close to the front as possible. "

Not long after the bombs dropped, the survivors began to band together. They flocked to the resources that were still worth their weight: gas, bullets, and water. Those tough enough to live were usually crazed, feral, or both, and the Immortan of the Atrium was no exception. Under his command was an army of cult-like war boys, willing to live and more importantly die for the one that they saw as a god. 

There’s uniformity to the followers, and the war boys are no exception. Skin painted white, partly in protection against the deadly sun, partly to honor the Immortan’s own sheen. Buck tightens the leather gloves gripping his fingers and grabs the shoulder ahead of him, a war boy that entered the den around the same year as him. 

“Sput. what’s going on?” He yells, the screams of his comrades nearly drowning out his question. A toothy grin breaks out across Sput’s face. 

“One of the top Imperator’s broke rank. Stole the War Rig and something valuable from the Immortan and is making off across the plains,” Sput pants before turning to the pile of steering wheels that occupy the largest space in the carved out room. Buck follows, pausing before the impressive display. 

In this world there’s leaders, and there are followers. The leaders make the rules, and the followers follow them. Simple. Easy. Much easier than before the Fall. Buck’s head shakes with effort as he holds his hands, clasped, above his head. Sunlight streams through a small hole in the ceiling, and Buck breathes. The Immortan saved Buck, saved all the war pups that would’ve been used as fodder for the People Eaters. An older war boy raises their steering wheel, the sacred V8 carved out into its middle, and Buck grabs a wheel and copies the motion with his own fist, letting out a whoop. 

But someone else grabs the steering wheel, easily ripping it from his hands. 

“That’s mine!” Buck argues but the other boy won’t be so easily swayed. 

“You don’t even have a cycle left, you’re decaying!” Char laughs. There’s no sympathy to his remark, because he knows it’s the same fate that they all face. Full of radiation, the only thing keeping it back is the adrenaline of the hunt. 

“Not yet!” Buck gritted, trying to get the wheel back but it was no use. Char was that much stronger, pushing Buck to the ground and sending up a puff of white dust. He walked away, leaving Buck to lick his wounded ego and pick himself up off the ground. He grabbed another wheel, scuttling away before someone could steal that one as well. 

Buck’s lungs burn, and he can’t tell anymore if it’s the screaming or the heat or the radiation, but he knows that Char wasn’t lying. He won’t be able to make this raiding party without a boost. 

“Perc!” Buck catches sight of the younger war boy that rode shotgun. Perc spun, his eyes wide. Buck tossed him the wheel, and his face lit up. “Get it started! I’ll be right there!” Perc held up the wheel, a vicious smile on his face.    
  


“To glory!” He yelled, and Buck clasped his own hands together and bowed his head at his friend. Buck makes his way upstream of the movement of the war boys, back to the medical bay. 

He needs fresh blood. 

More light comes in, dust filtering through as Buck stares up at the cages hanging from the ceiling. 

“That one,” he points, grabbing the bottom and shimming open the lock, sending the contents out, hanging now from their ankles. 

“Careful with that one,” A voice calls from the darkness, and an older, shriveled war boy steps out. His breathing is labored and Buck can tell every step hurts. “That one’s volatile.” 

“Perfect,” Buck breathes, reaching up to unlock the chains around the prisoner’s ankle. He growls as Buck steps closer. 

“What are you doing?” Someone else asks, and Buck freezes, recognizing the authority in the voice.

“I need a transfusion,” Buck answers, and the person pushes Buck to the side, unlocking the blood bag himself and grabbing the chain still keeping the prisoner’s hands tied. Now Buck knows who this is. Imperator Lawl. Half his face is hidden by an eye patch, and the rusted sheriff star pinned to his leather jacket still reflecting back sunlight. The blood bag tries to run but trips up as Lawl pulls the chain tight.

“And this one needs a muzzle.” Lawl was always kinder to the war boys, always helped them out, especially Buck. Lawl shortened the slack of the chain, the prisoner’s face still red from hanging upside down, almost matching the hue of their hair, despite the dirt staining his whole body. 

“Thanks,” Buck coughed out, watching as the Imperator grabbed a metal face mask and locked it behind the blood bag’s head. “I’ve got it from here.” 

“I’m sure you do,” Lawl chuckled, thrusting the now muzzled man forward towards Buck. His eyes were squinted as he examined Buck with a quick eye, but Buck was already moving, pulling his prize along, towards the growing cacophony of revving engines. 

“C’mon blood bag, we’re going to the Road!” Buck heaved, making his way towards the light of day, towards the rest of the war boys awaiting the arrival of the Immortan. 

Perc was standing over Buck’s car, waving excitedly as Buck strapped his newest addition to the front of the vehicle. His own breathing was shaking with excitement as he hooked the chain to the back of the metal muzzle, along with the small plastic tubing. He stuck the needle into the base of the blood bag’s neck, like he had done hundreds of times. He flinched but stayed still as Buck watched in delight as blood filled the tube, flowing slowly towards the other end. Quickly, Buck jumped in through the open window, flipping over his wrist and waiting for the blood to reach him. As it did, he watched a drop hit his thigh before stabbing the other end of the tube into the soft skin of his elbow. He breathed with relief as energized blood filled his system.

Perc seemed to sense the change in Buck’s demeanor and laughed, grabbing the steering wheel from it’s mount in the driver’s seat in front of Buck. 

“To Valhalla!” He roared, and the other driver’s revved their engines, screaming out in return. 

“The Immortan!” Someone else screamed, and there was a sea of whispers and yells as everyone tried to catch a glimpse of their leader. Buck raised his head, straining his neck to try and find him. 

“To Glory!” Buck felt chills run down his spine, despite the oppressive heat of the sun. That voice. Graveled and commanding, the voice of a god. “Return my property and I shall walk you across the gates myself!” Buck would cry if he could. The Immortan. Buck revved his engine, his engine straining with the effort, and the other war boys around him followed his lead. Then, as if the floodgates opened, the car in front of Buck kicked up sand and everyone floored it, spinning out in a mad rush to be as close to the front as possible. 

Before long the only thing that Buck can hear is the humming of his engine and the whirring of wind through his open window. Perc sits anxiously next to Buck, his lance twisting around in his grip.

On the horizon. The familiar black shape of the War Rig. Buck’s heartbeat rises in his ears, or maybe it’s the drumming of the rest of the war boys. Either way, Buck floors it, sending his car even faster across the sands. Perc perks up, getting up from the passenger seat to perch himself on the windowsill, gripping onto the roll bar on top of the car. 

The Rig was never that fast, especially when fully loaded, and the war party easily catches up, Buck among them. They quickly slide next to one side of the rig, bracing themselves for the predictable swerving of the Imperator as he tries to lose his new tails. Char and Sput quickly pull up on the opposite side of the heavy tank, Char spinning his lance, readying it for a toss.

Before he can though, the Imperator leans out, firing twice at their car and Sput swerves, sending the precariously positioned Char off of his balance. Sput reaches across the car, but his hand would never catch him in time.

The leaders control the followers. Buck’s knuckles were as white as the paint across his body as he watched, almost in slow motion, as Char jumped from the car, spiked stick still in hand. 

But there’s only one leader, and hundreds of followers. Another car appeared, it’s driver grabbing Char, using his momentum to continue his arch. Leather-clad arm, star pinned on his chest. Char landed skillfully on the next vehicle’s roof and threw his spear, the metal tip exploding on impact, flattening one of the Rig’s tires. Buck screamed with Char, celebrating his victory. It’s not the alpha that determines the outcome. 

It’s the strength of the pack.


	3. atrio relicta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the weak are downtrodden, the strong create rules to keep them there. But after so long, the weak become strong again, and they know how to hide, they know how to bide their time as the strong become lazy and weak themselves...

There are things in this world worth more than water. The figure sitting in the light blue light of early night lifts the canister to his lips, letting streams of the precious liquid flow down his chin, running down his neck, wetting his clean white tunic. It feels wonderful after the crushing heat of the day, the fabric clinging to his pale, smooth skin. A beam of moonlight is the only light in the concrete room, falling in through a hole in the ceiling. It casts a circle of white light into the middle of the floor, and the figure carefully stands, wrapping the white sheet he was sitting on around his shoulders as he creeps towards the light. 

The labored breathing of the Immortan covers the soft footfalls of the figure and the rattling of chains as he kneels in the light, lifting his eyes up to the crack in the light gray concrete, revealing a bright moon surrounded with a dark sky spotted with stars. He tries to stand, to pull himself closer to the open but is stopped as the chains around his ankles pull and he finds himself at the end of his leash. 

Bed doesn’t remember when he decided that he would leave. Maybe he had always known that this wasn’t the life he wanted, known that he wasn’t supposed to be the next Immortan. He hated this life, hated the chains and the orders and the quiet. But most of all, he hated the shelter. Bed didn’t know a life outside these walls, didn’t know anything besides this bed, the chain on the wall and the food brought in through the metal door. 

And the skylight. 

He had spent countless days watching the sunbeam travel across the floor, tracking its progress with pebbles that fell in during sandstorms and he had hidden under a loose rock in the floor. And when he couldn’t sleep, like tonight he would do the same with the moon, following its steady progress and eventual disappearance as night wore on. Bed returned to his previous seat on the bed, sitting cross legged and staring at the door.

He should feel blessed. That’s what the Immortan said, that’s what all the nurses always said, but always in hushed tones, eyes flashing at the always watching Immortan. He didn’t even know if he was his real father, but a disease-free son of the Immortan was rare, rarer than any other resource, and the Immortan knew that. Bed had been the only one so far to survive, and he was still young enough that he could remember the “mercy kills” of his less fortunate siblings. 

“Be grateful,” The Immortan would groan over and over again, any time that Bed would try and get mouthy back to his father. So Bed learned that silence was the easiest form of obedience. Blessed. 

And that’s what the first Imperator Bed met called him too. Blessed, until they met again and Bed had to keep his head bowed to hide the nasty bruise and cut across his cheek. Blessed, until the Imperator walked in on Bed trying to cut his foot off with a jagged rock to try and get out of the chains. 

Blessed. 

Maybe the Imperator had been the one to suggest it.

The water on his clothes had done its job almost too well and Bed now felt himself shivering, and wrapped the sheet tighter around himself. He clenched his teeth, hoping the chattering noise of his teeth wouldn’t awaken the older man. He barely even stirred, and Bed relaxed slightly.

Bed didn’t know why the Immortan allowed the Imperator to visit Bed, but he chalked it up to the Immortan wanting Bed to be friendly with his war generals. Bed didn’t care about the reason, as long as he was allowed contact with anyone from the outside world. Bed felt around under the cloth pillow on his bed for the necklace. His hand found the cold stone and he pulled it out, the leather cord trailing behind. His thumb traced the worn design, the carved angles and delicate swirls. If it was something, that semblance was long gone, replaced with a weathered worn shadow of its former self.

Maybe that’s all Bed was. A shadow of civilization. The last thread between this war torn wasteland and the tidy clean world that was left behind. Bed clenched his fist, closing his fingers around the stone before letting it slide through his fingers and lifting the string around his neck.

If Bed was all that was left, then he would be the one to cut the cord.

He waited. Bed knew the Immortan’s schedule, knew it almost better than he knew it himself, knew that the third day after a full moon he always sent the Imperator out for supplies. Knew that the Immortan always watched the Rig leave, and that his seat was furthest from this prison.

Bed picked the lock from the wall. That one wasn’t that hard, the metal rusted and rotted from years of use, and he barely had to poke around before the chain fell free. But the hobbles around his ankles proved trickier, and in the end he decided to gather the excess and carry it with him. He had convinced his nurse to help, and after some persuasion she agreed, knowing the future that was laid out for him. She pulled the outer door open and for the first time ever, Bed could see his freedom uninterrupted. He stepped towards the door but paused, the wheels turning in his head. 

“C’mon! You don’t have much time!” The nurse hissed but Bed ignored her warning, instead turning back to his bed. 

The knife wasn’t that sharp, making the cut that much more painful, but Bed knew that he would face much more than that once he stepped outside the room. The blade dragged across his palm, and he bit his lip to stifle the groan of pain from escaping his throat. He dropped the blade, his hand shaking, blood dripping onto the sandy floor. He climbed onto the bed to get higher and slapped his hand onto the wall, using the blood to leave a message. Satisfied, he climbed back down, ripping a strip from the bedsheet to wrap around his hand before wrapping what was left around his shoulders and head like a cape to hide the chains. 

The nurse pushed him out the door, keeping his head down as she led him through the corridors, pushing his head down as they passed war boys. Not that they encountered that many. Finally, her grip seemed to release and Bed lifted his gaze to find the Imperator standing in front of him, a cautious smile on his face. 

“You really ready to do this?” The Imperator crossed his arms, and Bed nodded furiously. 

“More than anything.” 

The space under the cab was small, but Bed was able to curl up comfortably next to the small stash of munitions that the Imperator carried with him. The Imperator climbed into the front seat and started the engine, the War Rig roaring to life as Bed closed his eyes. The rumbling of the vehicle was like the rocking of a cradle. 

“Keep your head down,” the Imperator breathed as he threw the truck into drive. The Rig eased forward and Bed pulled the blanket over his head, the last glimpse he had was the back of the Imperator’s head, where he noticed the same strange symbol that the war boys carried. 

\--

The Immortan watched the Rig drive off, giving the Imperator his praise and prayers as he drove the Fury Road to GasTown, his trailer full of water and food for trade. He would be back in a few days, and then the cycle would continue. The Immortan groaned as he made his way off the chair, struggling with painful steps as he made his way back to the bed chambers. 

He spun the vault lock and pulled open the heavy metal door, dust kicking up with the breeze, the particles catching sunlight as they settled again. 

The war boys could hear the screams of their Immortan and knew immediately something was wrong. He stormed off, leaving the vault door open as he made his way down to the underground lair of the war boys to ready them for a raiding party. But with him gone, the curious workers of the food farms found their way to the open door to stare in and gaze at the blood stained wall. 

_ My future will not be told in bullets and blood. _


	4. bullets, gas, and water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Criken gripped the steering wheel, waiting as one of the war boys pulled open the door to the exit. The waiting was always the hardest part, and Criken drummed his fingers along the metal of the wheel, tracing the skull detailing in its center."

Criken wraps his hand around the gearstick, his fingers coming away black with grease. He rubs it through his hair, smearing it across his forehead. The Rig is quiet now, an uncommon sight, and Criken steps back from the door, hanging off with his one good hand before landing on the ground. He knows the vehicle inside and out, having made many of the modifications himself. It’s his only sign of rank, his only authority above the lower war boys and the even lower water beggars, and Criken knows that rank is the only thing left in this world that people respect. 

He grabs a wrench and begins inspecting the outside of the cabin, stopping once in a while to tighten panels. He can’t tell if it’s day or night in the hangar, but knows that the quiet that hangs in the air must mean its early morning. He enjoys these moments, as much as anyone can enjoy anything these days. Criken climbs down from the roof and feels the exhaust tubing, reaching back as he gets ready to swing the wrench to free the sand buildup when he stops. 

Someone else has entered the hangar. He can hear the movement of sand, can hear the scared breathing. He rests his hand on the driver’s seat, letting his fingers touch the handle of the pistol there. But as the people round the corner of the truck he feels a sense of relief flood his system. Standing with the old nurse, huddled under a cape of white, is the Immortan’s son. His blue eyes stare back at Criken, wide eyed and frightened. The nurse pulls the hood off his head to reveal a head of ruffled blonde, and Criken lets himself smile. 

“You really ready to do this?” Criken asked, putting down the wrench. Bed nodded nervously, and Criken crossed his arms. 

“More than anything,” Bed answered, his voice soft but steady. It wasn’t ragged or broken, unused to the constant weathering of the sand. But Criken had made a promise. 

The Imperator didn’t frequent the chambers of the Immortan, but had decided one day to take a path that led him past the locked door to find it cracked open, and the sounds of whining coming from inside. Criken had buried his curiosity deep down, it was how he was able to operate in this shitty world for so long, but the sounds of desperation always drew ears. 

Criken had peered in to find a young man holding a sharp rock to his ankle, tears streaming down his face. At that moment Criken didn’t care that he wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t supposed to care. He rushed into the room, grabbing the person’s wrist as they tried to slash at their skin. The man stared back in surprise, dropping the rock but Criken kept his hand clasped around the man’s wrist as he struggled, and Criken examining the specimen sitting in the sand in front of him. 

Tears. Crying. Water. Criken wasn’t used to seeing water, especially in an excess enough that someone can cry. The liquid seemed to magnify his eyes, a brilliant blue peering up from his cross-legged position on the ground. He was clean too, not only his white clothes, wrapped in layers around his chest before hanging across his legs, but his skin too, disease free and unblemished, unlike anyone else roaming the wasteland. A rarity. 

Criken realized he was still gripping onto the man’s wrist, noting the stark difference between his weathered dirty skin and the man’s clean arm. He released, and the man shuffled backwards, holding his arm tight to his body, eyes still focused on Criken. The man was scared, that was easy enough to tell. Criken backed up too, trying to give the man some space, raising his hands in front of him. 

“Easy,” Criken muttered. “What’s your name?” The chaos of the previous activity settles in the room, but the man stays curled into a ball across from Criken, the chains around his ankle coiled like a snake. Criken slowly places his hand on his own chest. “Criken. Imperator.” The man opens his mouth and then shuts it, as if the very action could cause trouble. Criken doesn’t move, and it seemed as though the man finally made up his mind. 

“Bed,” he breathes, his eyes finally casting down and away from Criken. 

“Bed,” Criken repeats, shuffling closer as his mind begins to race. This place is not for the clean. It’s not for the kind hearted. It’s not for Bed. Criken reaches under his own shirt, pulling tight at the necklace he is wearing to snap the cord and hands it over to Bed. “I will get you out of here.” Criken forces Bed’s hand closed. “I swear on my life.” 

Criken gripped the steering wheel, waiting as one of the war boys pulled open the door to the exit. The waiting was always the hardest part, and Criken drummed his fingers along the metal of the wheel, tracing the skull detailing in its center. The door was wide now, and as Criken shifted into drive, he glanced in the rearview mirror. His escort of war boys was small, given that no town near here, save for a few troops of bandits, would dare attack the War Rig during the day. 

“Keep your head down,” Criken ordered, trying to make his words come out like breaths to disguise the talking. He didn’t dare look back to where he knew the gap was, he just hoped that Bed was smart enough to cover himself. Criken drove slowly, passing by the bowing war boys as the Immortan bellowed from above. 

“And praise the Imperator, who we send with supplies to bring back precious guzzoline and bullets. May you ride historic on the Fury Road!” Criken raised his chin as he passed, as sign of acknowledgement and as the road opened up so did he, shifting the massive vehicle into second, and then third, and then fourth gear. His anxiety didn’t lessen as they cruised along at high speeds, putting more and more space between the Atrium and the Immortan, and his precious heir. He knew that the Immortan had people watching the supply run, watching for the messages sent from Gastown. His hands didn’t shake as he turned the wheel sharply to the left, sending the Rig off the road and into uninhabited territory. He glanced again in the rearview. 

The driver side door shook as the head war boy jumped down, gripping the ledge of the window as he leaned in. 

“What’s going on boss?” His circular glasses obscured his eyes, and he pulled down his bandana as he spoke. Criken didn’t make eye contact. Instead, he gripped tight to the gear stick, the rig humming faster. 

“We’re making a detour,” Criken answered, his voice louder than the wind or the engine. The war boy nodded, shuffling along the edge of the door and back to his position on top the Rig. It was still once again, but Criken didn’t let himself grow comfortable. He knew it was only a matter of time…

“Boss.” The war boy was back, his voice much more urgent. “The Immortan is sending out a war party.” He pushed up, glancing back at the approaching dust cloud. “What did you do?” Criken narrowed his eyes, keeping them on the miles of sand ahead of him. “What did you do!?” The war boy repeated, his hand thrusting forward and gripping onto Criken’s throat. Criken was quick with his own reaction, using his knee to steer as one hand reached up to fight the man’s grip, and his mechanical arm reached under the dashboard, metal finding metal and he pulled out the gun, firing once.

The war boy’s body slipped off the side of the rig, and Criken took a deep breath, rubbing his throat. He hadn’t gotten as much of a lead as he had wanted, but it was going to have to be enough. He rolled his shoulders, watching in the rearview as the escort around him seemed to realize what was happening, the drivers and passengers arguing and arming themselves. Criken figures he could take them out before the war party caught up. 

Criken reloads his gun, counting the seconds as the beginning edges of the war party arrive, a few drugged up, crazed war boys ready to prove themselves to the Immortan. Criken shifted the Rig even faster, swerving as one of the escort vehicles began to shoot, the full trailer swinging wide and slamming into the side of the car. He presses down hard on the gas, locking it down and leans out the window, aiming and firing twice in one motion, the first vehicle swerving again, almost losing the war boy. Criken watched as an arm reached out, grabbing onto the falling war boy and swinging him over, his lance still flying and flattening one of the Rig’s tires. Criken growled, retreating back into the cabin. Lawlman. Of course the Immortan would send his second best Imperator. He lets himself chuckle, but something catches his eye. 

A flash on the horizon. No, more than that. 

“Criken,” Bed’s worried voice appeared in the backseat. “It’s so hot, what’s happening?” Bed was half wrapped in a flowing white fabric that billowed in the wind. 

“Keep down,” Criken ordered. “We’ve got trouble.” Buzzards. Criken had encountered them before, but usually he had the force of a few dozen disposable war boys, and usually they attacked on the Road, and usually Criken wasn’t already being chased by the majority of the Immortan’s forces for stealing the heir. 

But it wasn’t a usual day. 


	5. knockout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The voices were persistent, circling like the buzzards that picked clean the dried bodies that fell in the hot sand. He couldn’t tell what they said anymore, but their tone was clear. He needed to get out of here."

“Buck, get closer. Let’s pick the buzzards off his back, then we can have our prize!” Perc screamed, gripping tight to the hot metal roof as Buck floored it, sand flying and the engine roaring even louder. “Don’t move blood bag or it’s your head!” Perc laughed, aiming his lance at one of the spiked vehicles beginning its assault on the War Rig. Buck’s hood ornament turned his head slightly before Perc tossed the weapon, missing the blood bag’s head by inches. The first of the Buzzard’s cars exploded, and Buck’s face lit up in a smile. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He hadn’t felt this alive in a while. 

His blood bag was not having as good of a time. He could barely open his eyes, sand blowing up from the cars ahead of him, the metal mask burning his skin. He struggled against the chains, his head feeling light from the blood loss. The feral war boy tossed another lance and he muttered a few choice profanities. The car he was attached to sped up even more, almost coming nose to nose with the huge tanker that they were chasing. The driver looked over, making eye contact. The man’s eyes were dark, squinted as the sun shined bright. His skin wasn’t stained white like the war boys, but his forehead was painted black with grease. 

The driver broke contact first, but he kept staring over, the small spark of curiosity that was still burning in the back of his head roaring to life. Who was this rogue driver? And what did he have that the Immortan was willing to send his entire army after him? 

Criken saw the blood bag before the rest of the car. It was sad really, the guy must’ve been at least disease-free to be attached to a war boy, but that didn’t save his mind. His red hair matted down with sweat, his face half masked with a metal muzzle. The man was already staring, and Criken met his gaze. Something unspoken seemed to pass between them before Criken felt the Rig swerve. 

“Shit,” He groaned, forcing the Rig back onto his route. Finally. Criken squared his shoulders, lowering his gaze to the horizon. His ticket to freedom. 

Sirocco. A sandstorm, mostly. Except these ones acted more like hurricanes, with walls of wind and lightning, but with the devastating addition of belting sand. The War Rig had gone through more than its fair share of these storms. The War Party was still busy dealing with the Buzzards, and Criken was going to slip away in the storm. A grinding of metal and Criken lurched to the side again, righting himself as another car rammed up against his side, the spikes sending sparks flying into the air. He fumbled for his goggles, pulling them up from around his neck, then pulling the black bandana up with it to cover his mouth, trying his best to keep as much sand as possible out of his mouth. 

You make that mistake once. 

Buck had been too focused on the War Rig to notice the sandstorm until it was almost upon them. His thought wasn’t of fear. It never was, fear was burned out of the war boys with their first branding, the sizzling iron sealing their fate of death on the Fury Road. 

No, Buck felt elation. 

“What a day,” he whispered, his eyes glued to the clouds of swirling sand. Perc scrambled over the hood. 

“We need to move the bag to the back!” Perc’s voice was almost lost to the howling of the storm. Buck nodded, his head bobbing like the homemade bobblehead that Buck had decorated his dashboard with. Perc moved, unlocking the bloodbag’s hands and dragging him over the windshield. Perc slammed the bloodbag’s face into the glass, and for the first time, Buck met his eyes. They were half closed with an anticipation of pain, and Buck tilted his head and watched him disappear to the back of the car. 

Buck could hear shuffling and the car swerved with their movement, Buck steering to correct it. The storm was close enough that the windshield began to be peppered with sand, pinging off in a constant white noise. Buck began to roll up his window, but it jammed at the top, the chain attaching him to the blood bag keeping it open an inch. 

“Perc!” He screamed, knowing in the back of his mind that he couldn’t hear him. He tugged desperately at the chain again before grabbing the glasses in the seat next to him and pulling them on. “I will die historic,” Buck pushed his car even faster, the back of the War Rig close enough that the bloodbag could’ve touched it. “Historic, on the Fury Road, and will be carried to the gates of Valhalla…” Buck’s hands shook with excitement as he began to open up the extra containers of guzzoline, spraying his mouth with the chrome spray paint, his exhilaration reaching an animalistic level. Right as they pushed through the wall of the sandstorm, Buck floored it, slamming his car into the back of the Rig. 

First, there was nothing. 

Pain. Then excruciating pain. His body was twisted and as he began to come to consciousness, he realized he was buried in sand, his mouth filled with sand, the spikes of the face mask pressing into his cheeks. 

_ Get up Tomato. _

The voices were persistent, circling like the buzzards that picked clean the dried bodies that fell in the hot sand. He couldn’t tell what they said anymore, but their tone was clear. He needed to get out of here. Tomato pushed himself out of the sand, his ears ringing and his eyes blinded by the sudden bright sunlight. But the pain persisted, and his shoulders twitched as he flinched, his hands instinctively raising to block the light. 

_ Get up.  _

His heartbeat was rising in his throat, and Tomato realized with a start that the tube was still attached to his neck, and his fingers found the needle, pulling it free. The pain stopped, replaced with relief as his shoulders dropped. He pulled at the chain at the back of his head, following it along the ground, ripping it from the sand to find its end. He hoped it was just an arm. 

Chain, chain, chain, wrist, arm...body. Fuck. Tomato strained against the chain, pulling at the clasp around the war boy’s wrist. He needed this off him. He needed this mask off. He stopped, looking around for something he could use to remove the lock. 

Gun. He scurried over the sand, pulling the gun free and returning to the end of the chain, pressing the barrel of the gun against the war boy’s wrist and pulling the trigger, squinting his eyes in anticipation of the expected spray of viscera. 

Nothing. Tomato grunted his disappointment before opening the gun and checking for bullets. A pound of sand poured out and Tomato shut the gun. Useless. He threw the gun to the ground. 

_ Run.  _

Tomato glanced at the horizon, squinting as he tried to determine whether what he was looking at was a mirage or not. It shimmered, moving like the fake water that the crazed followed until they were hopelessly lost. He stepped closer. It moved, and he could hear the sounds of running water. He blinked. The mirage was still there. Tomato gathered up the chain as well as he could, throwing the limp body of the war boy over his shoulders, and the car door that was caught on the chain dragged behind, clutched in his grip. With a sigh, he grabbed the broken gun from the ground and began the trek towards the mirage. 

It seemed to come into view all at once, like he was coming out of a dense fog. One step it was blurry and ambiguous, the next it was all clear, the Rig and its occupants all in view. Tomato raised the gun, blinking the sand out of his eyes. He stopped walking, trying to make out the scene in front of him. 

The driver had a metal tool raised, using it to clear the sand from the pipes of the truck. A mechanical rig of some kind was hung off the side mirror, leather and metal straps swaying in the breeze. The sound of water dragged Tomato’s gaze to the other person standing close by. 

The water seemed to be coming from the tanker, a hose running along the ground, a steady stream being used by someone to wash themself. His eyes were closed as he used the hose to clean himself of sand, the white fabric of his clothes sticking to his wet skin. He dropped the hose, saying something to the driver. The driver tossed him a pair of bolt cutters. 

Criken slammed the wrench against the exhaust pipe again. He knew there was more sand in there, but he wasn’t going to be able to get it all out before they had to move again. Bed had been cramped long enough so they had stopped. 

“Can you pass me the cutters?” Bed asked, his voice louder than Criken had ever heard and he nodded, bending down and dropping the wrench to grab the bolt cutters. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just the truck jammed up with sand, but it had gotten into his arm as well. Bed caught them with apprehension and placed the sharp metal against the cuffs around his ankles. He winced with effort as he pushed the cutters together, the satisfying sound of metal against metal as the first cuff fell away. 

Criken turned back to the truck but something caught his eye behind the Rig. The man dropped the car door he was carrying, followed by the dead weight of the war boy thrown over his shoulders.

“Just fucking perfect,” Criken shifted, facing towards the stranger. Bed had noticed him too and his breathing quickened, the cutters working at the second ankle cuff. The man raised his gun, but Criken wasn’t worried. Yet. 

“Can I give him some water?” Bed had stepped out of the chains, handing the bolt cutters slowly back to Criken, who was keeping his eyes on the man. Criken lowered his head and Bed took that as a yes, throwing the hose towards the man, who glanced between Bed and Criken before picking up the hose, spraying himself in the face through the mask. Then it clicked for Criken. It was the blood bag. “We’re not going back, I’m not going back…” Bed mumbled under his breath, reaching for the necklace around his neck. 

The man dropped the hose, the water still running and pooling around the body of the war boy. The gun still raised, he pulled at the chain attached to the metal mask covering his face. He wanted freedom. Criken had barely stepped forward, tool in hand before the man grunted, swinging the gun back to Bed. 

“No.” His voice was gravely and low, unused to words. “You.” Criken handed them back and Bed gripped them with determination, slowly walking towards the masked man. 

“Imperator, is that just the wind, or is it a furious vexation?” Bed whispered as he reached the tool behind the man’s head. Bed struggled, twisting his body, trying to use leverage to get the chain free. He raised his arms, blocking the man’s view for a moment before Bed jumped to the side, Criken running full-speed into the man’s chest and tackling him to the ground. Bed scampered backwards and away from the fighting. Criken pinned him with his legs, stradling the man’s chest. 

The man had dropped his gun, and Criken used his good fist to slam repeatedly into the man’s face, avoiding the mask as best he could. The man took a few punches before Criken reached out and grabbed the gun, pressing it against his temple and pulling the trigger. Nothing. 

The man used the opening to roll, throwing Criken off and grabbing the bolt cutters, whipping them around and catching Criken in the face. It stung, and Criken tasted blood. The next swing he ducked, kicking out and throwing the man off balance. Bed rushed forward, pulling the chain and the man staggered backwards. Criken grabbed the gun again, using it as a blunt weapon and whacking him in the temple, sending the man sideways. Bed dropped the chain and they made eye contact. Bed's face betrayed his terrified nature. The man crawled on the ground, and Criken strided towards the side of the tanker, ready to finish this fight and keep moving. 

Then the war boy woke up. Criken’s focus was the truck, and missed the pale skinned half-life lift the chain, tripping Criken as the blood bag he was attached to managed to stand. Criken pushed himself up again, jumping at the side of the truck as he broke a compartment, revealing a small handgun. But his stance failed again as the war boy grabbed his legs, and his new accomplice was able to grab the gun. Criken stood again, pushing the man’s face against the searing hot metal of the tank and gripping over the man’s hand, ejecting the clip. The war boy scrambled under their feet, grabbing the clip, but this time it was Bed fighting for that piece of the gun, and the two flipped backwards.

Criken gritted his teeth, feeling the blood escaping his lips as he forced the gun closer to the man’s head, finally pulling the trigger, the bullet barely missing the man’s temple and leaving a ringing in both their ears. The man knocked his head back, and Criken saw stars, staggering before the man tackled him, pushing his face into the sand. He could feel a hand against the back of his head and then a click. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. Three shots circling his head. Criken exhaled. He had lost. 

“You got him blood bag,” The war boy encouraged, his voice using the same cadence of the rest of the fanatics. “The Immortan’s gonna shred him. Shred him!” He spat into Criken’s face, and Criken’s eyes fluttered with annoyance. The war party was close enough that they could hear the war drums, pounding like a heartbeat. The man stands, keeping his gun on Criken. “We could ask for anything,” The war boy’s voice sounds distant and he grows quiet. “I want to drive the war rig.” 

“That’s mine,” the man growls, pulling off the leather jacket the war boy was wearing and the war boy giggles. 

“You can ask for more than that.” Bed took off running towards the truck and the man raised his gun, firing off a single shot that exploded the sand in front of the warlord’s son before spinning and sucker punching the war boy in the stomach. 

“We’re going to the Valley,” Bed whispered, his voice wavering, his leg twisting in pain as blood ran down his calf. The blood bag rushed past Bed, climbing the rig and starting the engine, glaring out through the metal over his mouth. He put it in gear, and the truck started to drive off. Criken finally pushed himself up, meeting up with Bed. 

“How does it feel?” He glanced at the leg, and Bed sighed. 

“It hurts.” Bed’s clothes had finally dried, his light hair blowing in the wind. 

“Out here, everything hurts.” Criken inhaled, the war party a shimmer in the distance. “If you want to survive this, you have to do everything I say.” Criken turned to the direction that the War Rig had gone. “Now pick up what you can and run.” 


	6. spoils of war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“No.” It was the first thing they had heard him say without malice, his voice quiet. “I’ll do it.” Criken sat back down, watching the man stand, adjust himself, then open the door, climbing along the side of the truck, bag on his back. As soon as he was out of view, Criken focused back on the sandy path ahead. His right hand gripped the gearshift and he lifted the top, revealing a razor sharp blade inside. His eyes flashed back once more before he pushed it back down, hiding it again.'

Buck groaned, his head spinning, and he couldn’t tell if that was the after effects of the crash still scrambling his head or the punch to the gut. He didn’t care though. Instead, he staggered forwards, the chain on his wrist dragging behind him through the sand as he followed the tire tracks. This was the way to his salvation. 

Tomato’s hand was steady as he gripped the gear stick, the rough surface of the bone gritting against his calloused skin. The mask pressed against his nose and his cheeks, and his eyes darted around the cabin, trying to find anything sharp to try and finally get this thing off. He felt the engine lurch and his eyes returned to the road. His foot was still pushing the gas to the floor, but the Rig began to slow, the engine shutting off. He slammed his hands repeatedly against the wheel, maybe that would make it start again, maybe the engine would come back, maybe…

The Rig slowed to a stop, rocking in the soft sand, the stillness returning. The Imperator caught up easily, catching his breath as he stood outside the door. Tomato didn’t look down. 

“Kill switch,” he heaved, picking the mechanical arm off the mirror, slinging it onto his shoulder. “I designed the sequence myself.” His voice was level and matter-of-fact as he worked to reattach his arm, pulling the belt tight around his waist. “This Rig doesn’t go anywhere without me.” At that, Tomato slowly looked over, his eyes darting between the driver and his stowaway. 

“Fine,” Tomato’s voice was rough. “Just you.” The previous driver didn’t move. 

“I don’t go anywhere without him.” Tomato leaned out the window, estimating the distance between them and the approaching war party. 

“Then we wait.” Tomato sat back in the seat, and the Imperator looked back again, desperation in his breath. 

“Look,” he stepped forward, pulling himself up by the window, his face much closer now. “You really think the Immortan will just let you go? You’ve already damaged his heir.” Tomato didn’t respond. The man glanced again at the War Party behind them. “You’re sitting on two thousand horsepower of nitro-boosted War Machine. I’d say you’ve got about a five-minute head start.” Tomato glances in the mirror. 

“Four and a half.” The man sighs in defeat, and finally stares Tomato in the eye. 

“You want that thing off your face?” At that, Tomato meets the man’s glare, sliding over from the driver’s seat, letting the two back into the Rig. His hand was still gripped tight around the handgun, and he kept it raised at the Imperator as he slowly sat, his own hands raised above the wheel. Slowly, he reached under the dashboard. Tomato aimed the gun down as the Imperator kept eye contact, flipping switches and then pressing a big red button on the dash before restarting the engine, and the Rig was once again active. 

Criken’s hand brushed against the gun under the dash but the man seemed to sense his hesitation and grunted, quickly reaching over and grabbing where Criken had slowed his movement, removing the gun. Then, as if realizing the potential hiding spots there must be for other various weapons, grabbed a canvas bag from the backseat, dumping its little amount of contents in the backseat and gesturing to Bed, snapping his fingers. Bed got the message. Collect the rest of the guns. 

“I don’t have to do what you say,” Bed's eyes met the stranger’s, and he sounded like he was comforting himself more than anything. “You need me.” The man didn’t answer, and Bed continued his search for hardware. 

The man seemed satisfied enough as Bed finished, the bag packed with metal. He glanced out the windshield and reached over, grabbing the wheel from Criken, who would’ve cracked him over the nose if he was feeling a bit more fighty. 

“We’re not going in there,” he grunted, trying to steer the Rig away from the narrow canyon opening. 

“Behind you,” Criken gestured with his chin, and the man spun to the window. 

“The Gas Town Boys,” Bed articulated from the backseat, and the man grabbed the loose fabric wrapped around Bed’s shoulder. “Don’t damage the goods,” Bed’s voice was monotone, but it was also the first time Criken had heard him demand anything. 

“What do you see?” Criken asked instead, keeping his eyes forward, hoping it wasn’t as bad as his brain was imagining. The man released Bed and he grasped a small telescope, focusing on the cars. 

“Big rigs. Polecats. Flamers.” He lowered the telescope and made eye contact with Criken through the mirror. “And the People Eater himself.” Criken growled in frustration. The man in the passenger seat finally pulled the bag shut and lifted it over his shoulder. As he did so, the Rig shuttered and Criken lurched forward with the wasted momentum. A horrible grating noise filled the cabin. 

“What’s wrong?” Bed didn’t hide his concern, and Criken gritted his teeth as he fought the steering wheel. 

“The fuel pod. We must’ve jostled something loose.” Criken glanced at the man in the passenger seat. “I’ll go fix it.” 

“No.” It was the first thing they had heard him say without malice, his voice quiet. “I’ll do it.” Criken sat back down, watching the man stand, adjust himself, then open the door, climbing along the side of the truck, bag on his back. As soon as he was out of view, Criken focused back on the sandy path ahead. His right hand gripped the gearshift and he lifted the top, revealing a razor sharp blade inside. His eyes flashed back once more before he pushed it back down, hiding it again. 

Tomato climbed along the edge, his feet finding solid holds along the metal beast. Sand pelted his skin, and he squinted as he reached the top of the tanker, easily walking along its top, making his way to the fuel pod attached to the back. He let the bag drop, exhaling before dropping himself as well, letting his feet hang before he lowered down to the back bumper. The fuel pod was swinging wildly, spraying terrain up and out. Carefully, Tomato reached out, grabbing a loose cable and finding its attachment on the Rig, pushing the end in. The pod evened out, following along neatly now, and the grinding noise stopped. Appeased, Tomato grunted, dragging himself back up to the top of the tanker, walking calmly back to the main compartment. 

Criken finally let out a breath, shaking his head to clear his mind, rubbing his hand through his dirty hair. The man was a menace, and the sooner they got rid of him the better. Bed sat behind the passenger seat, his head leaning against the frame of the window, and Criken lifted his eyes to check on him. 

As he did, the hatch on the floor opened, and something burst out. Criken barely could react before a sickly white arm wrapped around his neck, and he felt hot metal chains against his throat. 

“Traitor!” Criken hears, spat with fury into his ear before the pressure is released, and the hand dissapears. Criken spun in his seat, grabbing the knife in the middle console as he did so and pressing it into the intruder’s neck. 

“No unnecessary killing!” Bed yelled, holding up his hand as the Imperator bared his teeth. 

“But this war boy wants me dead!” Criken belts, and the war boy seems more than happy to receive the beration. He tries to jump at Criken, but Bed grabs him again. 

“He’s just a kid at the end of his half-life!” Bed responds, his voice hoarse as he struggles to be heard over the howling winds. “I’ll tie him up!” 

“Throw him out!” Criken grates, and Bed pulls at the war boy’s chains. 

“I live, I die, I live again!” The war boy pants, and Criken realizes it’s not worth the effort, settling back into the driver’s seat and shoving the knife back into its sheath. As he does, the passenger door opens and a mask-less blood bag jumps in. His eyes flit between Criken and Bed, before he settles back onto Criken. 

“You’ve got more friends.” The man points over Criken’s shoulder, and Criken follows his finger. 

“Bullet farmer. From the Bullet Farm.” Criken stares at the encroaching war party. In the backseat, Bed is having his own fight. 

“It’s over, you cannot defy him!” The war boy was adamant, even as Bed tightened the metal around his wrists, using the shaul around his body to tighten the shackles. 

“We will!” Bed was desperate with anger, pushing the war boy backwards, the door opening. “He’s just a lying old man!” The war boy spilled out, barely missing the tire before Bed grabbed his wrists, leaning out of the Rig. 

“By his hand, we will be lifted up!” The war boy spat, and Bed let him fall farther. 

“Then why do we both have his logo seared onto our backs?” Bed pointed at the war boy, his voice loud and dominating. “Battle fodder!” And then pointed at himself. “Inheritance!” Something seemed to shift in the war boy’s face. 

“No, its-it’s not our fault!” The war boy seemed less sure this time. 

“Then who killed the world?” Bed screamed before finally pushing the war boy out, watching him tumble in the sand before closing the door. As he does, the Rig enters the canyon. 

Buck tumbled, hot sand burning his skin and filling his mouth. When he finally stopped the Rig was already barreling away, his key to Valhalla fading into a mirage. His hands were tied, and as he pushed himself up, he felt an unfamiliar softness mingled with the strong chains. It flowed through his fingers tips, threatening to be torn away by the wind. 

A run of white fabric. Not just any fabric, Buck thought, a smile beaming across his face, as his fingers gripped around it tightly. He held it up like a flag, trying to catch the attention of the war party. This was going to be his salvation. 

It seems quieter here in the canyon, but Tomato is no less uneasy. The Imperator takes a deep breath. 

“I made a deal up ahead. Safe passage. I hope it’s still good.” They drove some more before he spoke again. “Bed, I need you to go back in the hold.” The heir nodded and pulled open the metal door, lowering himself down. “I need you up here.” The Imperator spoke to him directly now. “I might need you to drive.” There was another pause, and the heir closed the door. “You can’t be seen. I’m supposed to be alone. That’s the deal.” Without a thought, Tomato jumped up, grabbing a gun from the bag and reopening the hold and nesting himself inside. 

The canyon went on, the top too high for Tomato to see from his hole in the floor. The heat was immense, and he shuffled himself around to try and get comfortable. At least the roar of the engine was loud down here. 

“Hey,” The Imperator spoke, his voice a strange whisper. “What’s your name?” The Imperator glanced back to make sure he had heard the question. “What do I call you?” Tomato pondered the question. 

“Does it matter?” Tomato answered, rolling his eyes, and the Imperator sighed. 

“Fine. When I yell ‘fool,’ you drive out of here as fast as you can.” Tomato watched the Imperator reach under the dashboard. “This is the sequence: one. Two, one. Two. Red, black, Go.” His hand lingered on the last button, and Tomato nodded his understanding. 

“Tomato.” He answered, and the Imperator’s eyes flashed to the mirror. “Call me Tomato.” The Imperator seemed to understand the weight of what Tomato was telling him and lowered his gaze. 

“Criken.” Tomato watched as Criken leaned forward, his fingers running through the grease around the steering wheel and painting his forehead and hair. When Tomato met Criken’s eyes again, he seemed like a completely different person. His stance in the driver’s seat had changed, his eyes had hardened. This was the Imperator.


	7. under the wheels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now they just had to deal with the bikers. As Criken glanced behind them, Tomato grabbed the barrel of a shotgun from the bag, handing it over to Criken. Their eyes met, and the same feeling passed between them as when Criken had first seen Tomato tied to the front of that war boy’s car. Tomato broke the stare first, looking back to the road ahead."

Tomato lowered himself even further as the Rig slowed, brushing the sand from his face, the gun gripped in his hand. He was completely under the cabin now and glanced up, meeting the heir’s scared eyes. He gave a tight lipped grin and a nod. The heir slowly released a breath he must’ve been holding in, his shoulders lowering. They both flinched as the driver’s side door slammed shut. 

Criken climbed down from the Rig, hanging from his hand as he carefully released, letting his feet land in the sand. He kept both his hands raised and slowly turned to face the trailer. 

“It’s all here. 20,000 gallons of guzzolene.” He took another step, then another, flexing his metal fingers, listening to the quiet grinding of grit between the gears. His voice echoed up the red rocks surrounding them. “I’ll unhitch the pod,” Criken lowered his arms. “You drop the rocks.” A motorcycle revved, and the sound of a few rocks falling signaled the approach of the bikers. 

“You said, ‘a few vehicles in pursuit, maybe,’” A motorcycle riding bandit appeared, pointing at the rock canyon behind the Rig. “I count three war parties!” He exclaimed, and Criken could feel the bandit’s eyes burning holes in his side. 

“Yeah, well I got unlucky,” he muttered the response as he picked up the pace. “Let’s do this thing!” He yelled back, almost reaching the pod at the end of the Rig before he felt the ground behind to shake. He stopped walking, inhaling sharply, and the pounding of the drums echoed through the canyon. As he stood to the side of the Rig, he could sense the bandits changing their minds, and in that split second he changed his as well. 

“Tomato!” He screamed, diving under the Rig as bullets flew, and before he could stand again the truck was moving forward, and he ran, ducking and weaving at the bandits fired. He reached the front, grabbing the door handle and pulling himself up, swinging into the cabin as a bullet hit the mirror. As Tomato shifted the truck into a higher gear, urging it faster, the pass behind them exploded, sending rocks down and blocking the path behind them. 

Now they just had to deal with the bikers. As Criken glanced behind them, Tomato grabbed the barrel of a shotgun from the bag, handing it over to Criken. Their eyes met, and the same feeling passed between them as when Criken had first seen Tomato tied to the front of that war boy’s car. Tomato broke the stare first, looking back to the road ahead. Criken pulled a shell from the bag, loading it into the gun, his eyes flashing to Bed in the backseat. The bikers were on them, keeping pace as they rode the hills to their left and right. One sped up, making its way to the front of the rig and they watched him grab something from his pocket, pausing a moment before tossing it at the front of their vehicle. 

The explosion sent a wave of fire over the windshield, a combination of heat and light that caused Tomato to shield his face momentarily. As the light faded and he blinked away the spots in his eyes, he watched more and more of the bikers approach, sending more and more bombs at them, jumping the hood on their motorcycles, each one sending another wave of fire. Tomato watched another jump, throwing their package before Criken leaned out the window and shot, the biker tumbling to the ground. Tomato got the next, firing off a fury of shots as another biker went down. 

Criken reached over, gripping a handle by the driver’s seat and pulling it up, and Tomato watched sand fly over the hood and extinguish the fires. A plow. Even though he was blinded momentarily, Tomato didn’t slow down, and Criken released the lever, stopping the sand. As he did, more bikers appeared behind them and Criken stood, pushing open a sunroof and climbing up. His gun was in Tomato’s lap, so he reloaded the weapon, handing it up to the Imperator. He could hear a shot, and fired out his own window as another biker made a jump, protecting the Imperator’s back. Tomato reloaded his own gun before reaching over and firing out the other window between Criken’s legs, and hearing another few shots from above. Criken ducked in as a bike skidded across the hood of the Rig. 

“Reload,” Criken handed the rifle back to Bed, who fumbled for a moment with the weapon. 

“I can’t,” he froze, and Criken raised his voice. 

“Yes you can!” Bed moved, his hands slowly working to reload the gun. A thud shook the Rig as a biker landed on the trailer, and Criken peeked his head through the ceiling. “Give me the gun!” 

“It’s not loaded yet!” Bed screamed back, frustrated. The biker stopped, raising his own gun at Criken. 

“We had a deal!” He pulls the trigger once but Tomato is already returning fire through the back windshield, the glass shattering and the biker sliding off the tanker. Bed finally throws the weapon back in time for another biker to appear, and Criken easily takes him out, his bike skidding under the tires. Whatever bomb he had goes off, breaking off the pod. Criken watches it slow and drift to the side, crashing into a rock and sending up a fiery explosion. And through the fire comes the Immortan’s personal war vehicle. Criken ducks back in, his breath catching in his throat. His hands fumble as he tries to reload the handgun in his lap. 

Bed’s hands are still shaking, the ringing of gunfire resounding through his ears like a horrible melody. He wanted to close his eyes and cover his ears and leave this place. But there, in the rearview mirror. A flash of chrome, and a blast of fire. Bed’s blood ran cold. The Immortan. 

And he was raising a gun at Criken. Bed glanced up, and Criken was still busy reloading. Without thinking further, Bed opened the door, sending up an empty prayer that his footing was solid as he stretched out his arms, hanging from the truck and putting himself in front of the Imperator. He lowered his gaze at the Immortan, who waved his gun, gesturing for Bed to move out of the way. 

“Bed!” The Immortan yelled, and Bed could hear the concern in his voice. “Bed!” He repeated. “You belong to me!” He tried to assure, and something in Bed felt compelled to move. “My property!” He snapped out of it, ridgid in his stance as he felt Criken’s arm reach across his own, his gun cocked. Bed watched one of the Immortan’s war boys jump in front of the windshield as Criken fired, blood spattering as his body slumped and he fell off the hood. The Rig pulled away, and Bed kept his stare until he felt a rough hand grab his wrist and pull him back in. As they did, Bed forced himself to breathe, not realizing he was holding his breath. 

Buck watched the Rig pull away, awestruck, still not believing this was happening. The cuff around his wrist has dug bloody cuts in his arm, staining the white fabric he has wrapped around his arm. But the excitement of riding in the back of the Immortan’s car is blocking out any pain he’s feeling. As they approached the side of the Rig again, Buck climbed past the other war boys to the front window. 

“Immortan,” Buck breathes, feeling the weight of his words. “If I get on the Rig, there’s a way inside.” The Immortan glances at Buck, his eyes quickly returning to the road. 

“What is your name?” The Immortan asks, his voice mechanical and muffled. Buck feels like God himself has asked him the question. 

“It’s Buck.” He readjusted himself, sliding closer to the front of the car. “I’ll pike him in the spine, keep him breathing for ya,” Buck displayed the spike between his closed fist, and the Immortan took a deep breath. 

“No,” he objected, reaching for his gun. “Put a bullet in his skull,” He handed over the weapon, and Buck took it like a piece of gold. “Stop the Rig, and return my treasure to me.” At that, the Immortan turned his head, making full eye contact with Buck, and he felt his soul lifting. “And I myself will carry you to the gates of Valhalla.” Buck took a shaky breath. 

“Am I awaited?” 

The Immortan sprayed Buck’s mouth with chrome paint, the smell overpowering his senses. “You will ride eternal, shiny and chrome.” He pulled the car up next to the tanker, driving closer as Buck climbed back, his head buzzing. The way boy on the machine gun grunted, holding out his arms and Buck nodded violently. With one movement, the man grabbed Buck’s sides, chucking him over and he scrambled to find an edge, his fingers gripping the hot metal. He groaned, pulling himself up, standing on the top of the tanker. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Immortan staring, and he evened his shoulders. Don’t mess this up. 

He stepped forward, and immediately felt that something was wrong, his hand jerked down, and as he fell and dropped the gun, he realized that the chain still attached to his wrist had caught something. He dangled from the side of the tanker and the Immortan drove off, his words lost to the desert. But Buck knew what he said. Failure. 

Criken felt anger bubble in his throat as he watched the Immortan rev his engine, sending his tank of a car in front of their Rig and to the other side, his gunner’s taking aim, firing a crossbow before Criken could even react, the bolt lodging itself into the engine block between the steering wheel. Criken jumped over, trying to pull the bolt free and Tomato lifted the wheel, unable to steer but made the situation worse. The wheel flew back, pinning Tomato’s hand against the door frame. His face contorted in inaudible pain, and Bed grabbed the bolt cutters, pushing open the side door and reaching forward, straining to cut the chain attached to the Immortan’s vehicle. Meanwhile, Criken pulled at the wheel, trying to lift it enough that Tomato could free his hand. Finally, Bed managed to push the bolt cutters through the chain and the bolt and wheel tumbled to the ground, the Immortan’s car swinging with the sudden release. Tomato cradled his hand and Criken snagged the wrench from the floor of the Rig, tightening it around the drive shaft, giving Tomato something to steer with. He grabbed Tomato’s hands, placing them on the wrench, and they locked eyes. Tomato nodded his assurance that he was able to drive, and Criken exhaled, glancing back to Bed. 

_ Bed.  _

He was looking back at the Immortan, who was pointing ahead to their path. 

“Bed! Look out!” The Immortan screamed, his voice thunderous and commanding, and Bed turned his whole body, his one hand still gripping tight to the bolt cutters, the white fabric of his shawl blowing in the wind. Criken grabbed the wrench, helping Tomato turn the Rig as best they could as the side of their vehicle smashed into a jutting rock, the door Bed was hanging on to demolished in the crash. Criken held his breath, staring back at where Bed was. For a moment, there was nothing but metal and dust. 

Bed’s hand felt around the corner before Bed’s head, poking out from the space between the Rig and their trailer, and Criken exhaled in relief. Bed gave them a smile, and Tomato lifted his hand, offering Bed a thumbs up. Criken sat again in the passenger seat, letting his body rest for a moment. 

Tomato fought the Rig to stay on the road, his body aching as the wrench strained on the drive shaft. Despite that, his eyes were trained on Bed, picking his way along the side of the Rig as he made his way back to the cabin. Hand, foot, hand, foot. Tomato watched his movements.  _ One more, kid, _ Tomato urged, and Bed reached his leg up, struggling to find a foothold. 

For one instant, Tomato could see Bed lunging forward, his hand extended to the mirror, his eyes wide in horror as he slipped, disappearing from view. The Immortan swerved, his vehicle flipping as he sent it up the side of the canyon. Criken grabbed Tomato’s arm. 

“What happened?” His voice cracked, desperation slipping through. 

“Slipped.” Tomato grunted, his voice humming and deep. 

“We have to go back, we can’t just-” Criken was screaming now, but Tomato’s voice was trained and even. 

“He went under the wheels.” 

“You saw?” Criken’s breath caught and he was quiet. Tomato didn’t answer, his focus back on the road. 


	8. valley of death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“Nurse used to call them antiseed.” Bed blinked the sand out of his eyes, letting his gaze fall out the window, to the rolling dunes in the distance and the fading sunlight. “Plant one and watch something die.” He was quiet after that, and Criken glanced back in the mirror, watching him. It had only been a day and a half, and Bed had already grown so much. The world tends to do that to you.'

Buck stared at the sharp edges of metal, the side of his head pressed against the cool metal of the top of the trailer. He had managed to climb into the gunner’s nest, curling up in a ball and hoping that no one ever found him. 

Failure. 

The look on the Immortan’s face seemed to be seared into the back of his eyes, that look of disappointment and pity and disgust. Buck rubbed his face, itching at the scabs on his neck. He couldn’t go back now, because on top of everything, the Immortan had watched his bloodbag drive the Rig that killed his heir.  _ His  _ bloodbag. Buck had just peeked his head over the side as the Rig slammed into the rocks. The Rig hadn’t even slowed down. 

Now, he laid here, awaiting death. 

Criken was still in shock as the engine sputtered, the Rig choking out. 

“Sand,” Tomato muttered, letting the Rig grind to a halt. His door was already open before the wheels stopped, and he was on his way to grab a jug of water. Criken clenched his fists, thinking of what to say when Tomato came back. He heard the water sloshing and opened his mouth, promptly closing it as Tomato reappeared in the driver’s side door. 

“Bed?” Criken’s voice cracked, and Bed climbed into the cabin and Tomato walked to the front, opening up the hood. Criken reached out, touching Bed’s cheek. Besides a small cut across his forehead, he seemed unharmed. “I...I watched...the rocks... “ Criken couldn’t find the words, and Bed had a wide smile on his face.

“Tomato helped me,” Bed touched Criken’s hand, leaning into his touch. “We rigged a harness while you were dealing with those bikers.” Criken laughed, releasing Bed. 

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Criken opened the door, aiming that question at Tomato, who didn’t answer. 

“We didn’t have time!” Bed was bubbling with happiness, and Criken inhaled deeply. Their celebration was short lived. Criken’s smile fell as he heard the roar of an engine. He grabbed the sniper, sliding out of the cab and jogging to the other side, standing by Tomato. He aimed up, finding a motorbike with two war boys. He blinked once and fired, watching both of them fall, the bike skidding out. 

“We have to move,” Criken’s tone had changed completely, and Tomato finished his cleaning, slamming shut the hood. He gestured to the driver’s seat, and Criken climbed in. It felt good to be back in the driver’s seat. He started the engines, easing the Rig back into its cruising gear. Tomato wriggled restlessly in his seat. 

“So what is this...Valley?” He asked, and Criken glanced over at the man before answering. 

“It’s a long night’s run, heading east.” Then, before Tomato could ask anything more, he continued, directing his next words at Bed. “We need inventory. Match every gun to its bullet.” Criken lifted the bag, handing it back to Bed, who began to rifle through. It was quiet again, the only sounds being the clicking of metal as Bed picked through bullets, and the constant reverberation of the War Rig. 

“Well, we’ve got four for big boy here, so he’s all but useless,” Bed patted the body of the rifle, leaning it against his shoulder for support. “But,” He added, picking up a gun smaller than his hand, dangling it from his fingers. “We can fire off this little peashooter a rowdy 29 times.” Neither Criken nor Tomato responded, and Bed sighed, replacing the small gun into the bag. “Nurse used to call them antiseed.” Bed blinked the sand out of his eyes, letting his gaze fall out the window, to the rolling dunes in the distance and the fading sunlight. “Plant one and watch something die.” He was quiet after that, and Criken glanced back in the mirror, watching him. It had only been a day and a half, and Bed had already grown so much. The world tends to do that to you. Criken focused back on the road. 

“We need someone out on the back,” Tomato stated, and Bed didn’t hesitate. 

“I’ll go,” He grabbed a pair of binoculars from the floor, throwing the strap over his shoulder. Criken shook his head, but Bed wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “I can do it.” His eyes were fierce, and Criken didn’t offer another challenge. Bed opened the backdoor, climbing out the side of the Rig, slamming the door behind him. Criken’s leg bounced up and down, and anxious tic. 

“I’m going under to do some repairs.” He waited a moment for Tomato to reach over to the wheel before climbing out, the Rig shuttering at the lack of gas before lurching forward, steady in its course. Again, Tomato was left alone in the cabin, and the voices began. 

Bed reached the top of the trailer, pulling himself up to the walkway with a groan. The tails of the cloth wrapped around him whipped around, and he pulled it higher on his shoulders as he walked, his feet struggling to find solid ground. With a great exhale he sat in the gunner’s nest at the back of the Rig, leaning against the window, watching where they had been. It was calming, he thought to himself, the grit of sand and the red and orange fading with the sun, the heat of day being replaced with a colder breeze. And the whining of the engine…

Bed spun around, realizing that wasn’t a mechanical sound at all. Instead, he found the war boy from before, curled into a ball, the chain still around his wrists, his eyes staring and dark. 

“What are you doing here?” Bed asked, because it was really the only thing he could ask. The war boy looked distraught, and not at all dangerous like before. 

“He saw it, he saw it all.” His voice was quiet and hoarse, but Bed had no idea what he was talking about. “He saw me fail, he saw…” As he spoke, he began to bang his head against the metal of the floor. 

“Stop that, stop,” Bed reached out, touching the war boy’s slicked back hair, gently pushing down, trying to get him to stop him from hurting himself. “Shhh,” Bed comforted and as the war boy relaxed, his eyes suddenly focused on Bed. 

“I saw you die,” His voice caught, and he swallowed hard. 

“Looks can be deceiving,” Bed's hand was still resting on the war boy’s head, and he let his thumb move up and down. Bed removed his hand, pushing himself off the windowsill and laying down, facing the war boy, examining his face. His skin was painted like all the others, but he had never seen one this close. Scars lined his lips like stitches, and the grease paint around his eyes was already beginning to fade. And his eyes. They were intense and dark, focused solely on Bed. 

“Three times the gates were open to me,” He uttered, as if in a trance. 

“What gates?” Bed frowned, adjusting his head to be more comfortable. 

“I was awaited in Valhalla. They were calling my name.” He whispered the words with such reverence that Bed was even inclined to believe them. 

“Then it must be your destiny not to.” Bed declared, and the war boy almost seemed satisfied with that answer. 

“I thought I was going to be spared for something great.” He paused, catching his breath. “I got to drive a pursuit vehicle, and at least for a while, Jerry and Dan stopped gnawing on my windpipe.” His voice rose in cadence as if he was trying to laugh. 

“Jerry and Dan?” Bed asked, and the war boy raised his arm, pointing to a pair of tumors on his neck. 

“My boys, Jerry and Dan.” His hand rested on his shoulder. “And if they don’t get me, the night terrors will.” The war boy sounded completely broken. 

“What’s your name?” Bed was still staring, and the war boy finally broke contact. 

“I’m Buck.” Bed slowly reached out, delicately tracing the scarring on Buck’s lips. 

“Bed,” he returned, and Buck nodded in recognition. 

Criken returned much later, the sun having set hours before. The landscape had turned blue, and Tomato felt like his whole body was itching from the inside out. Something about this land felt wrong. As the feeling crescendoed, the wheels of the Rig spun out, the trailer fishtailing as they caught a patch of slick mud. And while the collapse of the canyon had slowed down the pursuing war parties, the darkness now revealed how close they had gotten since. 

As Bed and Criken propped metal sheets under the tires, Tomato grabbed some explosives, aiming them towards the headlights in the distance, arranging them in their tire tracks. 

It wasn’t long after they were driving again that the explosives went off behind them. Tomato barely looked in the rearview, a flash of red and orange in the blue night. His hands were still gripped tight to the wrench that was attached to the drive shaft. They managed to drive a little further before the wheels stuck again, and all three jumped out, trying to manually push the Rig forward. As they did, the sound of gunfire filled the air. 

“Don’t they know who they’re shooting at?” Bed huffed, using his shoulder against the tire, mud and muck coating him. 

“Go,” was all Criken replied, and Bed ran back to the cabin of the Rig. Another burst of machine gun fire and Tomato fired once from the sniper, towards the light in the distance. Miss. 

“You’ve got three shots left!” Bed yelled back, and Tomato wiggled anxiously before firing and missing again. Criken approached him, stopping as he aimed the gun once more. He seemed to tense up before lowering the gun, handing it back to Criken and kneeling, giving Criken a stand. 

“Don’t breathe,” was all Criken whispered before firing, and the light in the distance was extinguished. Criken handed the gun back to Tomato, but as he did, the Rig lurched forward and they both glanced at each other before booking it to the front. 

“He wants to help!” Bed was screaming as they both reached the front of the Rig, and Criken could see that the situation was actually so much worse. It was the war boy. Somehow still alive, and now sitting in the driver’s seat of  _ his  _ Rig. The Rig sunk itself into another patch of mud and stopped, and Tomato nearly launched himself up the side of the door, flinging it open and pointing his gun, readying himself to kill this war boy once and for all. But the war boy held up his hands as a surrender, meekly pointing past the hood. 

“There’s high ground just past that stick thing,” the war boy’s voice shook with tension. 

“He means that tree,” Bed corrected, his head resting gently on the shoulder of the war boy. Criken sighed loudly, watching as the war boy jumped out of the truck, his hands still raised. 

“We just need to use the winch,” He uttered, stepping towards the front of the truck. 

“I’ll do it.” Tomato stepped in front of the war boy, and Criken glared at Bed. 

“Grab the engine plates.” The heir disappeared as the war boy climbed back into the driver’s seat, and Tomato grabbed the winch at the front of the Rig, pulling out the cord to the dead tree in the distance. The gunfire began again, more erratic and closer than before. Tomato didn’t want to be stuck here when whoever that was reached them. The winch reached its end and he pulled it around the tree, the clip not reaching all the way back. He pulled, but to no avail. 

“Bloodbag!” The war boy shouted, holding his hand out of the window, dangling the chain still attached to his wrist. Tomato raced back, using the bolt cutters to snip the lock, finally freeing the war boy and giving Tomato some much needed slack. He made it back to the tree, attaching the chain and the winch around the tree and the war boy hit the gas. The tree groaned under the strain, and Tomato instinctively wrapped his arms around it. Bullets hit the sand next to him, sending up plumes of dust. The Rig objected, pulling the tree even further back. Tomato could hear bullets pinging against metal, and finally the Rig pulled free, making it the high ground, rolling on to dry sand, its engines sizzling. 

Criken panted as he ran. He hated being shot at, and the past day was way more than he ever expected. Bed was keeping pace, his whole body splattered with mud and dirt. As Criken reached the driver’s door, he grabbed the window, pulling himself up with his mechanical arm. 

“How’s she running?” Criken asked, and the war boy smiled wide. 

“Hot and very thirsty,” Criken dropped back down, and the war boy began to ramble. “I never thought I’d do something as shiny as that.” Criken watched as Tomato grabbed a container of gas and the tools. Tomato noticed Criken watching. 

“You need to take the War Rig half a click up the path,” Tomato pointed to a gap in the fog. He turned to go. 

“What if you’re not back before the engines have cooled?” The words fell out of his mouth, concern and fear mixing before he could stop himself. Tomato turned back to Criken, raising his eyebrows in surprise. He paused, thinking before he continued. 

“Well, you keep moving.” With that he left, disappearing into the mist towards the gunfire. Criken strained to see any movement but couldn’t make anything out. 

“What’s he going to do?” Bed wondered, pulling the cloth wrapped around him tighter. 

“Retaliate first,” Criken responded, taking one last look behind the Rig before climbing in. Bed sat in the passenger seat, his knees pulled up tight to his chest. The war boy ran ahead, and when they stopped, he poured water over the engine, hoping to speed the cooling process. 

It was during one of those stops that Criken heard another explosion, his head snapping towards the noise, Bed and the war boy pausing in their jobs as well, watching the orange fireball fade as quickly as it had appeared. Then, faintly at first but slowly growing in volume, the sound of dragging. Metal against sand, and the distinctive sound of heavy footsteps in packed earth. Criken instinctively raised his gun, aiming it at the noise but instead it was Tomato, bathed in blue as he materialized out of the darkness, bullets and gear wrapped around his shoulders. As he got closer, he tossed something to Criken, who caught the object with his good arm. A wheel, made of welded together bullets. 

“Are you okay?” Bed asked, tilting his head in concern, handing over the canteen in his hands. Tomato stared at Bed as he took the bottle, dumping some of the water on his face before drinking. “You’re bleeding.” Tomato’s face was dark with blood, matting his hair, and dripping down his neck, staining the collar of his shirt. His hands also seemed to be bloodied, matching that same dark hue. 

“It’s not his blood.” Criken stares at Tomato, watching him drink before spinning and returning to the driver’s seat, replacing the wrench with the new wheel. The gunfire from before had ceased, and as Tomato and Bed climbed in, Criken brought the Rig back to life, the engine humming as they set off into the night. 

Criken ran his hands along the wheel. It wasn’t like before, but then again, nothing was anymore. He didn’t want to think about what Tomato had done to get it. 


	9. keeper of the seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“Stay in the Rig.” Criken opened the door, stepping out into the orange light of the setting sun. Bed scooched closer to Buck, watching Criken approach the base of the tower. There was a sense of uneasiness in the air, and Bed could feel it rising in his stomach as nausea. As they sat, Bed’s eyes flicked to Tomato, who carefully cocked his gun, down to his side and out of sight of Criken from outside the Rig.'

Tomato felt like he was burning alive. His skin itched, and when he reached to scratch, he found his arms bound, and as he tried to scream, he discovered his mouth was sewn shut. It was dark, but a dark that meant he was covered by something, not the same darkness of night. 

_ Tomato,  _ the voices sounded urgent, and their volume rose and rose, swirling around him. His chest tightened, and he couldn’t take in a good breath. Instead, each inhale brought with it more heat and sand, filling his lungs, scraping his throat.  _ Tomato!  _ The voices giggled as he suffocated, his body writhing and squirming. He couldn’t open his eyes, and the more he struggled the more sand and fire seemed to fill his body. The sound of whispering and laughing grew until it was deafening and Tomato could feel himself breaking again,the feral nature of his soul returning tenfold. 

Then as suddenly as it began, the voices disappeared and hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him from the sand. He tried to blink the grime from his eyes, attempting to figure out where he was. He was no longer bound, but as he followed the hands that had pulled him from the sand, he pushed himself back in shock. The person’s grip was stronger though. 

“Why did you leave us?” Criken’s voice cracked, white tears dripping from his cloudy eyes. His skin was weathered and cracked from the heat of the sun. “Why did you let us die?” His voice sounded doubled, and as Tomato glanced over Criken’s shoulder he could see Bed, swaying gently, wearing the same dead-eyed expression as Criken, his chest splattered with blood. Criken’s metal arm dissolved into dust, and Criken released Tomato, watching him skitter back, far from the pair. 

“I didn’t! I wouldn’t!” Tomato claimed, his body shaking, his own voice sounding foreign in his mouth. They followed his movement, but made no move to pursue him. 

“Your sins follow you Road Warrior,” Criken spoke, a solemn expression hanging from his face. 

“You can’t run forever.” Bed finished Criken’s sentence, falling to his knees. A sob was building in his throat, and Tomato tried to reach out to Criken, but his body seemed to be moving in slow motion. In the distance, Tomato could see the shape of a truck, it’s path headed straight towards the three of them. 

“We have to move,” Tomato choked out, managing to move his leg just a little, and Criken stared, unblinking. 

“It’s time to rest,” Tomato watched as Criken closed his eyes, turning to face the oncoming vehicle. Tomato couldn’t scream, he could just wait as the truck got closer and closer, the horn blaring.  _ Tomato, its over Tomato,  _ the voices laughed, and all he could do was close his eyes as the truck collided. 

Tomato opened his eyes with a start, his whole body moving as he tried to get up and escape. 

“Easy,” It was Criken, his voice quiet and softer than usual. “It’s okay.” His words sounded genuine this time. Tomato blinked again, and again. He was in the Rig, Criken was driving. Tomato glanced at the Imperator, and found that his eyes were the normal color, and he was still in possession of his metal arm. “Get some rest.” Criken emphasized, and Tomato peeked into the backseat, seeing the sleeping shape of Bed and the tagalong war boy, curled in the backseat for comfort. 

“How do you know this...Valley even exists?” Tomato questioned, trying to make small talk. No way he was going to try and sleep again. Criken drummed once on the stolen wheel. 

“I was born there.” His war paint had faded again, and Tomato tried to imagine what a life outside of this would be like. 

Why did you leave?” 

“I didn’t. I was taken as a child.” Criken paused, his voice hardening. “Stolen.” Tomato shifted in his seat, examining Criken’s expression. It was blank, but he could sense the storm underneath. 

“Why him?” Tomato gestured to the heir in the backseat, and Criken glanced back as well. 

“He’s looking for hope.” 

“What about you?” Tomato didn’t think the conversation would ever get this far. Criken tightened his knuckles around the wheel, the skin turning white. 

“Redemption.” Satisfied with the answer and not willing to push Criken to further conversation, Tomato dropped it, letting a comfortable silence fill the air between them. 

The dunes of sand rose and fell to their sides, and finally they seemed to form higher peaks and ridges. As they drove, Bed and the wat boy awoke slowly in the backseat, stretching and yawning as the sun rose even higher. Conversations were short and insignificant, and Tomato tuned out, watching the horizon and listening for drums. 

Criken slowed the Rig, stopping at the top of a ridge to scout. The engine hissed and he opened the door, hanging out as he scanned for any signs. Bed poked up from the sunroof, the binoculars in his hand. 

“There,” Bed pointed, and Tomato followed his finger, making out some kind of old tower in the distance. Criken stared as well, a half smile forming on his face. 

“I remember something like that.” There was a far off sadness to his voice, and as they piled back into the Rig, Tomato felt a pit forming in his stomach. Sooner than later, his feeling of uneasiness was justified. 

“Help! Please someone!” The tower was occupied, and as Criken peered out the windshield, he let his foot off the brake, slowing the Rig down. 

“That’s bait,” Tomato groaned, pointing at the person at the top. The man was waving at them, and even at that distance, they could tell he was terrified. Criken put the Rig in park, his eyes still focused on the man in the tower. 

“Stay in the Rig.” Criken opened the door, stepping out into the orange light of the setting sun. Bed scooched closer to Buck, watching Criken approach the base of the tower. There was a sense of uneasiness in the air, and Bed could feel it rising in his stomach as nausea. As they sat, Bed’s eyes flicked to Tomato, who carefully cocked his gun, down to his side and out of sight of Criken from outside the Rig. 

“I am one of the Faceless! My clan was Raven Walker!” Criken held up his hands as he spoke, and Bed and the others watched the man in the tower stop and examine Criken, before cupping his hands around his mouth and calling out to the dunes. A flash of silver and sand as motorcycles and dirt bikes appeared from nowhere, and the man climbed down, grabbing a loose fitting shirt at the bottom of the ladder. Criken and the man faced each other, staring, not saying anything. The other members on bikes drove up, surrounding Criken, and he lowered his arms. As he did, Tomato opened the door, pausing before stepping out, readying himself to provide backup. 

“It’s me,” was all Criken said, and the other man rushed forward, embracing him in a hug, cradling his head. As they seperated, they touched foreheads, and Bed could see tears in the other man’s eyes. 

“It really is our Keenan,” one of the other bikers spoke, and Tomato stepped out of the truck, his feet landing hard in the sand. Bed and Buck scrambled out as well, waiting to see what would happen. 

“Who are these others?” The man from the tower asked, his voice immediately more suspicious, and Bed felt his shoulders creep up, using Buck as a shield. 

“They’re good people, Strippin. They’re reliable.” Criken sounded soft, and as Bed stepped closer, the other members of the group swarmed him. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but instead felt warm and familial. He looked over at Criken, who smiled back. “I can’t wait for them to see it.” The uneasiness returned, and Strippin’s eyebrows crinkled together. 

“See what?” One of the other members of the group piped up, and Criken turned to him. 

“Home. The Valley.” Criken was still floating, but his smile began to fade. A few of the members looked at each other, and Bed glanced back at Buck. 

“But...if you can from the west…” one of the Faceless began. 

“Then you passed it,” another finished, sadness tinging his words. The lump in Bed’s throat came out as words. 

“The crows. That creepy place with the tree.” Bed felt goosebumps run up his arms, and Criken’s face went slack. 

“The soil went sour,” someone spoke, as Criken turned, slowly walking towards the sun. “The water was filth.” 

“Nothing grew…” 

“Then the crows…” 

“We had to get out…” 

“Poisoned…” 

“Where are the others?” Criken’s voice was quieter, his eyes straight ahead. 

“What others?” 

“We’re the only ones left…” Strippin answered, and Criken stepped out of the circle. 

Tomato stopped listening, watching Criken walk through the blowing sand. He reached over, unlatching the straps, letting his mechanical arm slip off onto the ground, walking a few more steps before falling to his knees. And he screamed. It was a terrifying sound, sorrow and fury and despair, ripped from his soul and released into the vast wasteland. 

Tomato knew that nothing is sacred in the wasteland, nothing could be saved. But just this once, he wished for that to be different. 

They made camp around the Rig. The night brought the same blue light as before, but this time the sky was clear, and stars provided enough illumination that they could comfortably see each other without additional light. Buck was unused to this small amount of activity, the quietness, the comfort in silence, and kept to himself, letting Bed drag him between the various groups as they made acquaintances. 

The pseudo-leader, Strippin, with his salt and pepper beard and stoic eyes, the pair Charborg and Sput that both wore masks and spoke together, finishing each other's sentences and seemingly inseparable. Then there was Dave, with his warm eyes and even warmer voice, that carried a leather bag on the back of his bike. When Buck pointed, Dave smiled, removing the bag and slowly unzipping it. 

“Take a peek,” Dave encouraged, and Buck stepped away from Bed’s side. 

“What are they?” Buck wondered out loud, and Dave’s laugh rang out between the dunes. 

“Seeds. The real thing.” Buck watched as Dave ran his hands along the various containers, filled with all kinds of shapes. To Buck, they looked like tiny rocks, but painted all different colors. 

“What do you do with them?” Buck glanced back up at Dave, who was gingerly removing a tiny skull, where a small green stem seemed to be stuck in. 

“I plant one every chance I get. So far nothing’s taken, the earth’s too sour.” Bed rejoined Buck, taking his arm and looking over his shoulder. “There used to be fruits, trees, flowers. There used to be enough for everybody.” Bed studied the seeds in Dave’s bag, and in turn, Buck studied Bed. 

Eventually Bed brought Buck to sit on top of the Rig, back in the gunner’s seat where Bed had first found him. They had lit a small lantern, casting a beautiful golden glow around them. The sky was alight with stars, and they both watched as they moved across the stars. 

“Look,” Bed pointed, his hand following a faint light as it traced across the sky. “Nurse said those are called satellites.” Bed glanced over at Buck, who instead of looking at the sky, was looking at Bed. “You’re missing it,” he giggled, and Buck made an effort to stare at the sky, but he was again distracted by Bed. 

“Your eyes,” Buck tilted his head. “They’re like a well of water. And I feel like I could never be thirsty staring into them.” Bed reached over, tracing the scars on his face. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Bed smiled, but his cheeks were red, and Buck felt like this could be his Valhalla. “But your hair is really something else,” Bed smiled, reaching up, pulling out one of his curls. “It’s like a thunderstorm.” 

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Buck felt his face flush, brushing at his own hair, but when Bed reached up again he didn’t pull away, instead leaning into the heir’s touch. 

Criken pulled the blanket that Strippin had wrapped around him a little closer, cutting out the chill from the night air. His head still pounded, but he felt more level now, and after discussing things further with the other Faceless, he was even calmer. But there was still an itch that he felt needed scratching, a scab that was just waiting to be ripped open again. Instead, with a deep breath, Criken approached Tomato, who was sitting alone near the front of the Rig. He had a cloth strip on his knee, and seemed to be filling in a map, dipping a needle into his own blood for ink. 

“Can I talk to you?” Criken asked, and Tomato nodded, following as Criken stepped further out into front of the Rig. Behind Tomato he could see the massive salt flats, and then nothing. He closed his eyes for a moment. “I’ve talked with the others. We’re never going to have a better chance to make it across the salt.” Tomato was staring intently, and Criken continued. “If we leave the rig here and load the motorcycles up with as much as we can, we can maybe ride for a hundred and sixty days.” He paused again. “One of those bikes is yours. Fully loaded. You’re more than welcome to come with us.” Tomato’s eyes fell to the sand below, and he rubbed his palms. 

"I’ll, uh, I’ll make my own way.” Tomato didn’t sound certain, but Criken trusted the man, and didn’t want to push him. Still, he was a strong fighter, and had been helpful the past days, and...Criken turned to leave. He knew that Tomato wouldn’t want to go. “ You know, hope is a mistake.” Tomato spoke up again, and Criken spun quickly. “If you can’t fix what’s broken, you’ll, uh, you’ll go insane.” Criken stood there for a minute before nodding, returning back to the rest of the group, leaving Tomato at the front of the Rig, alone again. 


	10. nothing but salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Whatever they had, it wasn’t going to be enough for what they were doing. As they crested one large dune, the Rig slowed, and Criken could see the canyon in the distance. They just had to make it across the plains. He pressed his foot all the way to the floor and the Rig groaned, its engine’s tired but willing nonetheless, surging forward."

The motorcycles were long gone, but Tomato was still watching the salt flats, the sun reflecting off the white surface, shimmering with heat. He stood, staring at the traces of dust in the distance, the last remnants of the group before even that blew away and they would only be a memory. He should leave. He should move. 

_ Tomato.  _ He didn’t know if the Immortan was still chasing them, didn’t know if there was anyone else tailing them, or how more peace he had before he would be running again. 

_ Where are you Tomato?  _ He spun, finding nothing. His eyes darted side to side. They were closing in.  _ Help us. You promised to help us.  _ Tomato tried to clear his head, rubbing his cheeks with his hands, closing his eyes. 

_ C’mon. Let’s go.  _

Even with the scarf pulled over his face, Tomato was breathing in dirt. He squinted through the broken goggles, urging his bike even faster. He knew they couldn’t have gotten that much farther. When they materialized on the horizon he pushed the bike faster, circling out in front of them and slowing, forcing them to stop. Criken was the first to remove his goggles, pulling down his own bandana, staring over at Tomato with a hunger in his eyes. 

“Alright,” Tomato was already off his bike, stepping over to Criken and pulling out the map he had altered last night. “This is your way home.” He laid out the map on the handlebars, and Criken leaned in, examining the small map. 

“We go back?” Criken asked, disbelief in his voice. 

“Hm.” Tomato nodded quickly, his gaze moving to the different members in the group. 

“Back?” Bed piped up, confusion lingering in his tone. 

“Yeah,” Tomato repeated, and the rest of the Faceless began to settle, removing some of their goggles. 

“What’s he saying?” Dave yelled from the back, and Strippin turned his body to answer. 

“He wants to go back from where they came.”

“The Atrium,” Criken sighed, his eyes meeting Tomatos’. 

“And what’s there at the Atrium?” Strippin asked, leaning onto his own handlebars. 

“Green,” Tomato replied, and Criken’s eyes told Tomato that he didn’t like this plan at all. 

“And water, lots of it. A ridiculous amount of clear water,” Bed stood, making sure he was heard from the back. Chatter spread through the group. 

“Where does the water come from?” Chief asked, pulling down his scarf. 

“He pumps it up, deep from the ground. Claims it all for himself, and since he owns that, he owns all of us.” As Bed spoke, he turned around, running a hand along the skull brand on the back of his neck. Tomato watched Buck touch the scar on the back of his neck subconsciously, and Criken swallowed hard. 

“If we have to skirt the mountains, it’ll take us two weeks to get there,” Strippin’s eyes lowered, and Tomato pointed back to where he knew the War Rig was. 

“No, I suggest we go back the way we came. Through the canyon.” The group was quiet. 

“We know it’s clear, right? He brought all his war parties through.” Surprisingly, Bed was the most on board with his plan, but Tomato was not going to be ungrateful. 

“So we take the War Rig,” He pointed at Bed, who smiled deviously. “And we charge it right through the middle of them. We can decouple the tanker at the pass. Cut it off behind us.” 

“Kaboom!” Chief and Zyke added in unison and the rest of the Faceless laughed. Criken still wasn’t convinced. 

“And how exactly do we take the Atrium? Given that we’re still alive by then?” 

“If we can block the pass, it’ll be easy.” Everyone spun to face the quiet spoken war boy at the back of the group. He cleared his throat. “ All that’s left are his War Pups and War Boys too sick to fight.” 

“And we’ll be with Buck,” Bed added, leaning over and gripping his arm. “He’ll be bringing me home, bringing back what’s stolen, as he’s meant to.” They gaze at each other momentarily. 

“Yeah, feels like hope,” Buck enunciates. Criken still seems unconvinced. Tomato lowers his head, catching Criken’s gaze. 

“Look, it’ll be a hard day. But I guarantee you that a hundred and sixty days riding that way, there’s nothing but salt.” Tomato stopped, catching his breath. “At least that way, you know, we might be able to,” His breath caught. “Together, come across some kind of redemption.” Without thinking, he held out his hand, and Criken rolled his eyes before grasping his hand in agreement. He gripped tight to Tomato’s calloused hand, and Tomato could tell what the message was: “Don’t make me regret this.” 

Criken breathed out, glancing in the rearview mirror at the cloud of dust behind them, and then back ahead to Strip in the front. Dave was riding shotgun in the Rig, with Bed, Buck and Chief in the backseat, and Tomato sitting down on the floor, pistol gripped tightly between his hands. Criken could feel the barrel of the shotgun digging into his leg as the truck bumped along the road, and he made a mental note of their stock. 

Whatever they had, it wasn’t going to be enough for what they were doing. As they crested one large dune, the Rig slowed, and Criken could see the canyon in the distance. They just had to make it across the plains. He pressed his foot all the way to the floor and the Rig groaned, its engine’s tired but willing nonetheless, surging forward. 

A flash. That’s all he saw at first, but it was enough to catch Strippin’s eye, and he pointed right, raising his masked face. Criken pulled the War Rig’s horn in acknowledgment. The Immortan had seen them, and now it was time to run like hell. 

“What are you doing?” Buck’s head tilted as he turned at the sound of Bed’s muffled voice. He watched as the heir looked up and down and up again, making hand gestures and pressing his fingers to his lips. 

“Praying,” was his answer as he continued. 

“To who?” Buck was transfixed, and Bed paused to turn to the war boy. 

“Anyone that’s listening.” With that, an engine roared much too close for comfort and Bed jumped, his attention focused on the activity outside the Rig. Dave leaned out the window, a smile on his face as he cocked his gun. 

“Here we go boys!” He yelled, and Strippin dropped back, ready to engage the first car. And as bullets ricocheted off the side of the Rig, Bed grabbed onto Buck’s hand, squeezing tight. 

Tomato was furious.  _ Not only was this war boy shooting at them _ , he thought as he ducked again, reloaded his pistol. 

“That’s my car!” Tomato screamed as he returned fire, aiming at the driver. The driver laughed as his sidekick climbed out the window, sitting himself on the hood, and began to feed gas into the engine directly. 

“He’s trying to get in front of us! Spike our tires!” Criken screams over the chaos, and Buck opens the back door, grabbing the extra can of gas from the middle of the cabin. He climbs across the side of the truck, pausing at Criken’s window. “Don’t blow my engine,” Criken grits as a warning, and Buck squints ahead. 

“I’m just going to nudge her a little bit.” Tomato watched as Buck grabbed onto the engine block, sucking in gas and spitting it back into the engine. As he did, the Rig lurched forward, and the RPM needle edged closer to the red. 

“You filth!” Buck can’t even see, can only taste guzzoline as his body burns on the hot hood of the Rig, the engine screaming below him. But that voice cuts through. “You traited him!” 

_ Perc.  _ Buck couldn’t look over, couldn’t see his old partner, could only hear the pain and agony in his voice as he denounced him. There was more shooting, and as Buck tried to take another breath, he breathed gas into his lungs and felt himself choking. As he did, there’s a hand on his shoulder. 

“Go.” It’s Tomato, and Buck quickly nodded, following his orders as he returned to the Rig. He doesn’t even flinch as he watches Strippin aim at the pursuit vehicle and fire, sending the vehicle spiraling out of control. Then there’s black smoke filling the cabin, and Buck can feel the Rig slowing. 

“Got to back off!” Criken yelled to Tomato on the hood. He climbed back to Criken’s window. “Engine one is gone, engine two’s about to blow.” Tomato pulls himself over the window, using his arm to steady himself. 

“Right.” Tomato used his chin to direct his question at Buck. “Are you a black thumb?” 

“Uh-huh.” Buck is still out of it from the gas, but knows that if he helps, it will make him feel useful. 

“Alright. Engine one now.” Buck grabbed the tool bag, glancing once more at Bed, who stares back with desperation and worry in his eyes. As he leaves, there’s a feeling in his chest like this could be the last time he sees Bed.

“You and me,” Tomato pointed at Chief. “Fifth wheel, let’s unhook this tanker.” 

Strippin is bent low over the handlebars of his bike, feeling the recoil of the gun each time Zyke fires. “One man...” Strippin screamed over the wind. 

“One bullet!” Zyke finished, firing again, and Strip can hear metal crunching as Zyke finds his targets. Another car pulled up next to them, and Zyke fired, blood splattering the white skin of the war boy as he slumped over, and Strip swerved to avoid the car as it slowed. 

Maybe it was something else. A feeling. Strippin breathed in, and the world seemed to slow down for a moment, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He turned his head to look the other way just as another car pulled up, the spearman pulling back to throw. As he did, Strippin screams. 

“ZYKE!” He braked hard, but the spear still hits them and the bike tumbles, sending them both crashing through the sand. Strip is the first up, scrambling as he reached out, searching for Zyke. 

“Strippin, Strippin…” Zyke’s voice is broken and wet, and his hands are out-stretched. “I can’t see, I can’t see…” Zyke mumbled, and Strip can see blood pouring from the man’s face, dirt and more blood mixed across his neck. More cars zoomed past them, and Strippin grabbed Zyke’s gun, aiming at the approaching vehicles. He’s kneeling over Zyke, who is frantically clinging to Strippin, grasping at his clothing. Strip fires and reloads. Aim. Fire. Reload. Aim. Fire. Reload. Anger and hatred ran through his veins as he shot. One vehicle steers towards them, and as it gets closer, Strip raises the gun again, firing once. Twice. The vehicle is too close now, but he has no choice but to keep shooting. 

Chief watches from the Rig as Strippin falls from the bike, but knows that there’s nothing he can do now. Instead he leaned down, working at the chains attaching the trailer to the front of the Rig. Chief leans out to the side before nudging Tomato’s shoulder. 

“Hey!” He yelled, getting Tomato’s attention. “Harpoons and plows! They’re hauling us back!” Without hesitating, Tomato climbed the ladder on the tanker, Chief following behind him as they rushed to the back. Chief handed him the bolt cutters as Tomato lowered himself, and grabbed his legs as he began to cut at the chains. 

Criken fired out the window, well aware that he only had a few more bullets left. Dave reloaded, and as Criken glanced over, something flew in through the window, and Criken was pulled back by his neck, the air leaving his throat. 

Dave lunged over, grabbing onto the wire as Criken ripped at his neck, dropping his gun. Bed pulled too, and as the polecat grabbed through the sunroof at Criken, Dave stabbed at him, and the wire released. 

Criken gasped, air filling his empty lungs as spots danced in front of his eyes. The world was muffled, and he could hear Bed babbling behind him. 

“Dave? Dave! Are you alright? Are you hurt?” The words were fuzzy and his ears rang as Bed patted Dave down, but there was a familiar look on his face. His eyes were glassy and distant. As Criken finally came back to his senses, another polecat leaned down over the Rig, only thing time, he grabbed Bed. 

“NO!” Criken screamed, reaching up to the light as Bed reached back, but he was already gone. 


	11. i live, i die...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Criken can’t raise his hand to block the explosion, only squint as he sees the People Eater’s tanker explode. The pain in his side has gone from excruciating to completely numb, except when he breathed, sending rounds of pain shooting through his whole body. The back door opened and shut, but Criken kept his eyes forward, his attention on the Immortan’s vehicle."

Tomato swung with the bolt cutters, the war boy taking the metal to his chest and flying off the top of the rig. As he did, another polecat took his place, landing with glee to face off against Tomato. Chief shot, but the bullet went wide, lodging in the man’s shoulder as he advanced, grabbing Chief by the front of his shirt. Tomato tried to swing again but the cat grabbed the cutters midair, tossing them down, Tomato going along with it, his head banging against the metal. 

Black. Fuzzy and hot, Tomato can hear the voices. Muffled, more than usual. But frantic. Frenzied.  _ Hey!  _ He blinked, his vision returning as he raised his head, pushing himself up. Chief is still caught in the grips of polecat, and as Tomato stood, the cat raised his own hand at Tomato, firing off a single dart from a wrist shooter. 

Suddenly, Tomato sees the voice. Young, red hair, light skin. Eyes older than he could imagine. He raised his hand as if to throw something at Tomato’s face and he instinctively blocked it. As he does, the vision disappears, and pain flares through his palm as he sees the bolt that pierced his hand. The polecat turns to face another war boy as he jumps to the Rig, and Tomato rips the bolt from his hand in one motion before jabbing it through the side of the polecat’s temple, grabbing Chief before the cat can pull him over.

“Finish them, and I’ll finish him!” Both Chief and Tomato react at the scream from a war boy that was climbing onto the main cabin of the Rig, trying to make his way to Criken. Tomato jumps, grabbing the war boys legs, trying to stop him from getting to the Imperator. But it’s not enough. The boy is determined, kicking out at Tomato as they swing out to the side of the Rig, and for a brief moment, Tomato and Criken make eye contact, until the war boy kicks him loose and he falls. 

Almost. He can feel himself in the air for a second, the wind the only thing between him and the ground until Criken grabs his leg, his metal arm gripping onto his ankle with all his might. 

Criken held his breath. It had been an almost involuntary reaction, grabbing Tomato, but as he hung outside the Rig, upside down, blood dripping from his face and his eyes distant, Criken felt just a tiny bit of hope. Maybe they could do this. 

Searing pain, stretching up his side and down his leg. Criken gasps, the only sound he can make as the gears and mechanical pieces in his arm begin to fail. He can taste blood pooling in his mouth as his lungs fill with the warm fluid, and his eyes glass over as Tomato gets blurry. He feels like he’s moving in slow motion as he turns to see the war boy that attacked him, the bloody shiv still in hand. Dave reaches over, grabbing the knife in the gear shift and stabs the boy in the neck, blood splattering and dripping before Bed manages to push the body out the door. 

Criken groans as he tries to keep his grip on Tomato, but can tell he’s losing it. And he has bigger problems right now. In the rearview mirror, pushing against his tanker, was the war boy driving Tomato’s car. Somehow he was still alive, and as he pointed up at Criken his car accelerated, trying once again to get in front of the rig. 

No. He wasn’t pointing at Criken. Criken glanced again at the swinging form of Tomato. The People Eater had also arrived, trying to cut the Rig off from further out. Fine. Criken growled, gritting through the blood in his teeth as he swerved the Rig, forcing the War Boy’s car closer and closer to the Rig of the People Eater. Close enough to touch. Close enough…

There’s sparks, and then, as Criken pushes him closer, his wheels go airborne, and with one final shove the car crushes, a fireball erupting between the two vehicles. Criken doesn’t realize he’s screaming until he can’t breathe. 

The explosion is blinding, and Tomato raises his hands to block the heat and light. His head feels loose, but as he’s swinging, Tomato catches Buck’s waving hands as he stretches out. Criken seems to notice as well, and swings him back, releasing on the upswing. Tomato feels Buck’s arms grab his wrists, and he pulls him onto the back part of the Rig. Then, before he can change his mind, Tomato jumps again, climbing his way onto the vehicle of the People Eater. 

He pulls the first war boy right out of the passenger seat, and as the People Eater himself aims a gun at his head, he easily grabs the man’s wrist, pushing it up as he fires. Then he pushes the man’s arm further, hearing a satisfying crack as he yells out and releases the gun. Then there’s gunfire, and Tomato ducks his head, glancing back to see the Immortan between the vehicle he’s trying to commandeer and the War Rig. The Immortan aims again, and Tomato pushes the People Eater in front of him, feeling the impact of the bullets as they riddle the man’s body. 

The vehicle swerved as Tomato tried to move the man out of the way, his foot now pressed completely against the gas as he steered, pulling on the wheel as hard as he could. He’s able to wrangle the vehicle towards the War Rig as the Immortan pulls away, positioning himself in front of the Rig. Bed leans out of the backseat, waving at Tomato to get his attention. 

“He’s hurt!” He screams, cupping his hands around his mouth. “He’s hurt real bad!” Tomato locks eyes with Criken, who’s staring back, his face tightened in a grimace. He had to get back, there was no arguing that, and Tomato’s mind raced. Without much more thinking, he pushed the dead man’s leg over, letting the weight push down on the gas, and interlocked his arms into the wheel. Hopefully, the vehicle would stay long enough for him to get out. But considering how the day had gone so far, he wouldn’t count on it. He didn’t let himself think about it much more, sliding over and slamming the passenger door open and launching himself out, and again finding himself in the air. 

His hands scramble as he tries to find purchase on the War Rig and his feet catch a pipe, allowing him to push himself up. As he does, the shadow of the People Eater’s Rig disappears, and he turns instinctively to watch the whole thing swerve, the tanker jack-kniving too fast, causing the whole thing to explode. 

Criken can’t raise his hand to block the explosion, only squint as he sees the People Eater’s tanker explode. The pain in his side has gone from excruciating to completely numb, except when he breathed, sending rounds of pain shooting through his whole body. The back door opened and shut, but Criken kept his eyes forward, his attention on the Immortan’s vehicle. 

“I’m going to need you to drive,” Criken choked out, and Buck was at his side immediately, grabbing the wheel as Criken slid sideways, swallowing the agony burning his chest. “I’ll get him out of the way.” Criken snarled, lifting himself out of the sunroof. He was not going to let the Immortan take back Bed, even if it was the last thing he did. 

Criken steadied himself on the hood of the Rig, finding his balance on the constant movement. That was the easy part. He had basically built this thing from the ground up, knew how every single bolt moved, knew every vibration and sound. No, the hard part was going to be getting from here to the back of the Immortan’s war vehicle. As Criken stood, another figure raised his head, a cruel smile spreading across his face. The sleeveless leather jacket, the eyepatch. The sheriff’s badge. 

“C’mon Imperator! Show me what you got!” Lawl laughed, holding out his arms to the side. “You’re nothing!” Too fast, he draws his gun, aiming it at Criken, but before he can, something else tackles him to the ground, wrestling the gun from his hand. Tomato. With the other imperator distracted, Criken only has to deal with the other war boys. 

Bed tries not to look as Lawl draws his gun. He closes his eyes, tears escaping his eyes as the Immortan pushes the gun closer to his face, the metal hot on his temple. He doesn't want to even breathe, doesn’t want to move, but there’s a commotion near the back of the car. The Immortan glances in his mirror, and Bed uses the opportunity to sneak a peek as well. 

Tomato seems to have neutralized Lawl, but not without sustaining a few injuries of his own. Criken was nowhere to be found, but missing war boys told Bed that Criken had to still be here somewhere. As his gaze focused on the road ahead, Bed saw him. Out of the corner of his eye, his face much worse than before, but still as determined, clinging for life to the outside of the vehicle. Inches from the driver’s side window. 

Bed had to do something. He had spent his whole life wanting to do something. To feel anything more than the four concrete walls and the metal chain. And this man, this creature with a gun to his head was the only person preventing that. He had kept him locked up like a pet, like a trophy on display. 

Bed’s hands were steady as he lunged sideways, pushing the Immortan’s head and shoulders outside the window of his vehicle. As he did, Criken grabbed the bottom half of his gruesome mask with his mechanical hand, pulling the man close. 

“Remember me?” Criken spat, his voice animalistic. Before he could answer, Criken pulled back his shoulder, letting his arm mechanism fall, the rigging catching in the axle of the car, ripping the mask down and off, along with the bottom half of the Immortan’s face. Bed's world slows as the man’s body slumps, and he can feel splatters of blood land on his face. 

Buck watches through the dirty windshield of the War Rig as Tomato barely catches Criken before he falls, grabbing tightly to the fabric of the man’s shirt, lifting with all his might to get him back on the roof. Criken was limp, his eyes fluttering as Tomato laid him down. Through the back windshield, he could see Bed, his blood-soaked hands clutching the steering wheel. Suddenly, Dave sits up next to him, grasping at his side and pushing his bag of seeds over to Buck. 

“Take care of these for me, okay?” Dave gives him a warm smile as he climbs out the roof, and Buck can only watch as he’s joined by Chief on the hood of the Rig. Buck makes sure he’s steady as they make their way over. Tomato hoists Criken onto his shoulder and almost carries the Imperator back. 

“Bed!” Tomato calls, kneeling as he pauses on the hood, and Bed looks up. “We have to go!” Buck watches, holding his breath as Bed leans over, spitting at the corpse of the man he used to call father before letting Dave take the wheel. He didn’t exhale until Bed had climbed back in, sitting in the passenger seat, his eyes resting briefly on the bag of seeds between him and Buck. In the backseat, Tomato had already laid out Criken, trying to attend to his wounds. 

The Immortan’s vehicle sped up, pulling off to the side to let Buck through, and Buck nodded in respect as he passed. Continuing to watch them in the rearview. Dave slowed even more, pulling the car sideways through the canyon. The trailer of the War Rig, still half full with guzzoline, detached, slowing and finally stopping at the pass. As he watched, Strippin and Zyke arrived on their bike, their forms getting smaller and smaller. Even from the distance, Buck could tell they were battered and bruised. All four seemed to know he was watching and turned to face the Rig one more time, raising their hands in unison before closing their fists and pulling down. 

In solidarity, Buck quietly copied the motion. As he did, the explosion went off, and the canyon walls collapsed behind them. 


	12. ...i live again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wasteland is unyielding and treacherous. It takes and it takes and it takes, and before you know it, you’re just a sack of flesh and half a brain with nothing except the thought of death. But human nature is worse. It fights, no matter the odds, and it fights dirty. It’ll tempt you family and care and love when everything else seems like it’s falling apart. Even when the world is gone, our humanity lives on. It can’t help it. We ask who killed the world, but then who is left to tell it’s story?

Bed is sitting, his knees tucked up to his chest. He’s trying to focus on anything but the blood that is drying on his face, on the sounds of ripping flesh, of the smell of hot viscera...He glances back, seeing Tomato beginning to lay Criken flat across the backseat. Too much blood, Bed thinks, before focusing back ahead. His throat feels raw, and the wrappings around his hands are brown with dirt. His legs ache and he wishes he could rest for a moment. 

Buck is sitting in the driver’s seat, his hands whiter than usual as he grips onto the steering wheel. He can hear the sand gritting between the gears as he struggles to turn the wheel and keep the dying rig on the road. Bed wants to keep going forever, to never stop moving, maybe then they can escape...Bed stops. They’re not running anymore. He exhales, his own breath shaky. Criken was right. The wasteland doesn’t care who you are. It’ll suck the life from you if you’re not paying attention. 

Criken. Bed spins in his seat to check on his friend. Alive, but barely. His breath is labored, each breath sounding like it’s rattling around in his chest before forcing its way out. Tears threaten to prick at the corner of Bed’s eyes. 

“Why’s he making that noise?” The words are dry, and Tomato is silent from the backseat. Instead it’s Buck that answers, peering out through a black eye that Bed hadn’t noticed before. 

“A death rattle,” he croaks. 

“He’s getting air into his lungs,” Tomato finishes, trying to lay Criken as flat as possible. Tomato doesn’t look any better, but at least he’s awake and upright. Criken breathes again as if to illustrate Tomato and Buck’s point, and the noise is painful and strained. Bed doesn’t want to watch, and can hear Tomato shuffling around their belongings, out of sight, seemingly looking for something.

“No, no,” Bed wants to cry now, but the tears aren’t coming this time, so instead he bites at his tongue to stifle the sobs that he can feel rising in his chest. Bed glances forward, and when his gaze returns to Tomato, he grabs something out of the bag. Tomato leans forward, carefully pulling Criken towards him, cradling his head next to his own. 

“I’m so sorry,” He murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper before Bed watches Tomato stab Criken again in the ribcage. Criken heaves, his body rising at the pain and Tomato removes the shank, the metal clattering to the floor as he drops it, the object dripping with blood. Criken’s breath finally sounded cleaner and more even. Bed spins back around in his seat, covering his mouth as he fights the urge to vomit, and Buck reaches his own hand out. Bed doesn’t hesitate to grab it, squeezing Buck’s hand, and Buck squeezes back in reassurance. 

Tomato slowly lets Criken back down, and he seems to focus on Tomato for a moment before his head lolls sideways and his eyes begin to shut. “No, hey. Criken,” Tomato gently slaps the side of Criken’s face, trying to wake him back up. His own body aches and burns in pain, but he can’t think about that right now. “Stay with me.” But it seems that Criken can’t, he’s so tired, he’s done fighting. Tomato places his hands on either side of Criken’s face, staring into his barely open eyes, fumbling as Criken’s body once again goes limp. Criken would’ve sworn that Tomato had tears in his eyes. 

“Blood,” Buck groans, clenching his teeth in pain. “He needs blood.” Tomato studied Criken’s pale face, his bleached lips. Quickly, and with experienced hands, Tomato untied the plastic tubing from a pocket in his jacket, cleaning the needle as best he could before rolling up his own sleeve. Bed leaned forward, his hand still clenched within Bucks’ as he rocked back and forth. 

“Hold this,” Tomato hissed as he held the second needle between his teeth, holding the other end of the tube up. Bed knows he needs to help and releases Buck’s hand as he grabs the needle, holding it up to keep it unkinked. “Keep him awake.” 

“Imperator,” Bed reaches back and shakes Criken’s arm. “Criken,” he speaks, the word tumbling out of his mouth like water. Then without hesitation, Tomato inserts the needle into the crease of his own elbow and watches the blood flow out, tiny trickles of blood escaping and running down the length of his arm. It moves quickly down the plastic, and Tomato watches, waiting for it to reach the other side. 

“Careful,” he warned Bed, moving the tube to keep the blood flowing. Finally, it seemed to come out the other end, dripping onto the hot metal of the floor and Buck could’ve sworn he heard sizzling. Tomato went to work again, pushing aside wrappings as he pushed the needle into Criken’s skin. The heat, the sun, the stifling air seemed to become trivial and fall away as Tomato focused, hoping for any kind of change. Even the rumbling engine of the Rig faded, Tomato’s own heartbeat the only constant, the blood pumping evenly in his arm. 

Even the voices were quiet. 

Criken was still, and Tomato leaned close again, closing his eyes as he touched his own forehead to Crikens’, his hand resting behind Criken’s head. The world around them fell away. 

“Jared.” Tomato whispered, nodding, hoping that Criken was able to hear him. “My name is Jared.” Criken’s eyelids fluttered, and Tomato could feel his breath on his face. He didn’t know if it meant anything to him anymore. This close, it was as if he could feel Criken’s pain, his suffering, his mourning. 

But something was missing from before. Tomato inhaled deeply, the smell of mud and blood mixing with the sticky sweet smell of skin and clothes. The heaviness was gone, the cloud that followed the Imperator since they first met, that darkness even in the bright heat of midday. Tomato held his breath, letting his lungs burn. 

And he felt it. A soft, barely there, warm breeze. He opened his eyes, and as he did, Criken’s eyes fluttered open, and he was greeted by their warm, amber gaze. Tomato exhaled, his shoulders dropping as he did so. Criken had done it. 

He had found redemption. 

The Atrium greeted them, even from a distance. Its tall tower, rising like a beacon from the eroded landscape. And now it called to them like a renewed siren’s song. Buck allowed the Rig to slow as they approached the base, the sea of people parting as the Rig drove through. 

“Halt!” One of the war boys above commanded, and the Rig stopped, the elevator to get to the upper levels stopping mid-decent. Bed glanced at Buck, his eyes clouded with worry before he opened the passenger door of the Rig, stepping out and swinging himself onto the hood. Whispers rippled through the crowd, and they echoed through the ranks of war pups above. The Immortan’s son. It was the lost heir. 

“The Immortan!” Bed screamed, his voice forceful and striking as he addressed the masses. “Is dead!” His chin lifted as he spoke, wind pulling at the loose ends of his clothing. “His reign is over!” Bed sung out, a laugh behind his teeth. As he stood, Criken stepped out of the door, clutching his side, and Bed jumped down, letting the famed Imperator lean on his shoulder. If the son of the Immortan wasn’t enough to convince the war boys to let them up, then the Imperator would be. Soon, the masses began to chant. 

“Let them up! Let them up! Let them up!” Criken was heavy as he pushed against Bed, but at that moment, as the guards began to let the elevator down and the people were chanting, Bed could have carried the world. 

Criken needed all of his energy to stand, but he needed that now. He needed to be there for Bed as they waited for the elevator to bring them up to the Atrium. People began to swarm them, and they reached for the two, touching and smiling and crying. Buck had exited the Rig as well to join them, and he seemed surprised to receive the same treatment. It seemed that without his white paint and slicked hair, he was seen as human again. Buck was grateful enough to grab Criken’s other shoulder, and he leaned into the roughed up war boy. 

“Not bad kid,” Criken leaned his head over to touch it to Buck’s and Buck smiled back, warmer than he had ever seen him. Suddenly, as the sound of rushing water filled the air, all three glanced to the opposite side of the Atrium, where the water pipes had begun to pump out water. At the top, the Mothers held onto the controls, and Criken raised his good hand at them. 

A loud thump from behind told them that the elevator had arrived and they all stepped on, along with many more of the people from the ground. They have gotten maybe twenty feet off the ground before Criken glanced back into the truck. Tomato. 

He was gone, and Criken scanned the ground below, trying to find him. There. As people surged forward he was standing back, a still figure in the crowd. He was staring up at Criken, his eyes full of something that Criken finally had a name for. Hope. Silence passed between them, as well as a hundred words both of them would never say aloud, and as the elevator raised higher, Tomato turned, disappearing into the crowd. 


End file.
